IRLF 


E73    3E5 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM    DARWIN    CRABB 

Author   of   "Poems  of  the  Plains,"    "Lyrics  of   the  Golden 
West"  and   "Poems  of  the  Golden  West." 


POEMS 


OF    THE 


GOLDEN  WEST 


BY 
WILLIAM  DARWIN  CRABB 


1920 

HARR   WAGNER  PUBLISHING   CO. 

San  Francisco 

California 


Copyrighted 

1920 
By  William  Darwin   Crabb 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Frontispiece 

Biographical  Sketch ix 

DEDICATORY: 

The   Ideal /  .' 13 

Personal        ,     .     .  15 

Why  Sing?        16 

NATUBE: 
California  Scenes. 

California  Sunrise 17- 

Cape  Horn  of  the  Sierras 17 

Eocks  of  Monterey       18 

Two  Departures — Tamalpais 19 

City  of  the  Golden  Gate 20 

Shasta 22 

Sacramento  Valley        23 

Other  Scenic  Pieces. 

In  the  Desert— Overland 24 

Humboldt  Lake 25 

Indian  Summer  on  the  Plains        25 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 
Friendship. 

Song  of  Friendship       27 

A  Dirge        28 

Is  Spring  for  All? 29 

Edgar  A.  Poe        31 

That  Dreamless  Sleep        32, 

Our  Marian 40 

Since  Thou  Art  Not  Here 40 

Live  and  Let  Live        42 

Lament  of  Mrs.  E.  A.  Poe        42 

WAYSIDE  BLOSSOMS. 

I.     California  Sunset 45 

II.     Dead 46 

III.  Wedlock 47 

IV.  A  Bell  Toll 47 

V.     Fourteen-Lined  Love  Tale        48 

VI.     By-and-By       49 

VII.     A  Tide        49 


Q 
O 


Contents 


VIII.     Perhaps 50 

IX.     A  Tenting  Place 50 

X.     A  Magnet        51 

XL     A  Trace  of  Eden 51 

XII.     This  or  That       52 

XIII.  Pharisaism 53 

XIV.  Paradoxes        53 

XV.     A  Eover 54 

XVI.     Be  Merciful 54 

XVII.     A  Heroine 55 

XVIII.     A  Comet-Thought 56 

POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Vivian 57 

Annette 69 

Agnes       70 

The  Good  Star  of  Hope         72 

My  Golden  Nugget — My  Valentine        74 

Alone        •.-...     .    .     .     .     .     .     .  76 

My  Young  Wild  Rhyme .  77 

Three  Wrecks       78 

Her  Gifts  to  Me       80 

Esther       83 

Ellen         .     , 84 

Inet       ;..;>• 85 

To  Esther 86 

Esther 87 

My  Flowers 89 

Tl  e  Loved  Unknown 91 

Confidence 93 

To  Anna     .     ., 95 

RELIGION  AND  PATRIOTISM. 

The  Valley  of  Peace 98 

Song  for  Faith 100 

Our  Inner  Temple HO 

What  Is  Great? Ill 

Peace        113 

My  America 114 

The  Child  of  Woe 115 

My  Far-Away 118 

Telouchkine 119 

TALES. 
Introductory. 

Life— A  Tale 121 

Driven  from  Eden 121 

The  Ishmaelite               129 


Contents  iii 

Page 

lola 137 

In  Lighter  Vein. 

Money 140 

Growing  Old 141 

Chinatown  Inland 144 

An  Overland  Sweat 145 

This  Is  a  Day 146 

Sham         147 

Who's  Guve'naw? 149 

PKAIEIE  BLOSSOMS. 

The  Thoughts  of  a  Genius 150 

Knowledge         150 

A  Mystery  Eevealed 150 

Tea  and  Coffee 151 

Warm  and  Cool 151 

A  Burial 152 

CONCLUSION. 

Be  It  So  152 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

In  the  little  town  of  Amity,  whose  character  is  indicated 
by  its  name,  not  far  from  Columbus,  Ohio,  the  author, 
William  Darwin  Crabb,  was  born. 

After  a  preparatory  course,  he  entered  the  Ohio  Wesleyan 
University,  and  graduated  in  the  Classical  Course  with 
honor. 

Among  his  classmates  and  acquaintances  while  there  were 
some  of  our  notable  men,  such  as  United  States  Senator 
Foraker,  Governor  Pattison  of  Ohio,  Governor  Hamilton  of 
Illinois,  Professor  Battelle,  editor  of  Locke  Js  National 
Monthly;  Bishops  Luccock,  McDowell  and  Thirkield,  Span 
ish-American  Missionary  Superintendent  Dr.  Drees,  John  G. 
Wooley,  famous  prohibition  leader,  and  Professor  White  of 
Harvard. 

During  his  senior  year  in  college  Mr.  Crabb  was  editor 
of  the  college  paper.  He  took  post  graduate  work,  and 
also  read  a  full  course  in  law,  sufficient  for  admission  to 
the  District  Court  of  California,  but  not  with  the  intention 
of  applying  for  admission,  or  taking  up  the  practice  of 
law,  but  simply  for  the  purpose  of  broadening  his  education. 
.'^He  taught  for  awhile  after  graduation,  and  while  Prin 
cipal  of  the  lola  Schools,  in  Kansas,  he  received  an  offer 
from  Governor  Harrington  of  Alabama  to  make  him  manag 
ing  editor  of  a  proposed  new  magazine  in  the  South.  But 
literary  lines  had  been  so  broken  up  by  the  preceding  war 
that  he  deemed  it  inadvisable  and  did  not  accept. 

Shortly  afterward,  he  came  to  San  Francisco,  and  taught 
for  awhile  in  this  State. 

He  was  elected  to  a  position  as  Principal  in  the  Univer 
sity  of  the  Pacific,  and  remained  there  three  years. 

In  the  little  town  of  Eumsey,  nestled  so  picturesquely 
among  the  foothills  and  mountains,  where  "Old  Dame  Na 
ture"  has  given  of  her  best  to  please  the  eye  of  mankind, 
are  located  the  good  staunch  friends  who  made  it  possible 
for  the  author  to  publish  his  book  at  this  time,  and  in  his 
behalf  I  wish  to  express  hearty  appreciation.. 

His  literary  productions  have  been  as  follows:  While  in 
college,  editor  of  the  college  paper,  he  contributed  to  it  of 
prose  and  poetry;  also  to  Locke's  National  Monthly  ("Pe 
troleum  V.  Nasby  V  magazine),  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  at 
Columbus,  and  others. 

His    first    volume    of    poems    entitled,    "Poems    of    the 


x  Biographical  Sketch 

Plains,'7  published  by  Hurd  &  Houghton  of  New  York  City, 
was  issued  while  he  was  yet  in  school.  This  book  was  well 
received,  and  the  whole  issue  promptly  sold. 

At  Columbus,  Ohio,  he  published  a  volume  entitled, 
' '  Lives  of  the  Ohio  State  Officers  and  Legislators. ' '  . 

Soon  after  he  came  to  San  Francisco  he  had  printed  a 
small  book  simply  to  give  to  friends  and  not  to  put  on  the 
market,  entitled,  "Silver  Shimmer." 

Afterwards  he  contributed  prose  and  poetry  to  the  Over 
land  Monthly,  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle,  the  Argonaut, 
and  others  of  the  San  Francisco  papers.  Here  he  compiled 
the  rules  of  all  the  courts  then  practicing  in  San  Francisco 
in  a  good-sized  law  volume,  which  was  promptly  sold  to 
attorneys  and  proved  very  profitable. 

Just  before  the  earthquake  he  had  published  by  the 
Whitaker  Eay  Co.  another  volume  of  poems,  entitled, 
"Lyrics  of  the  Golden  West."  The  first  edition  was  sold, 
and,  just  on  the  eve  of  a  second  edition,  the  fire  of  the 
San  Francisco  earthquake  consumed  the  publishers'  plant, 
plates  and  all,  making  it  impossible  to  issue  the  second 
edition. 

Since  then  he  has  been  holding  his  productions,  both 
prose  and  poetry,  having  in  hand  now  material  for  several 
volumes. 


POEMS 


OF  THE 


GOLDEN  WEST 


DEDICATORY 


THE  IDEAL. 

To  Her 

who  first  a  song,  a  voice, 
Accordant  with  seraphic  lyre 
From  Heaven  came  to  win  her  choice, 
And  sing  her  being  thro'  my  heart, 
And  make  anew  my  soul  acute, 
Enkindling  with  angelic  fire — 

Voice  sweeter  than  the  mellow  lute — 
Song  artless,  yet  the  perfect  art; 
To  her  these  songs  I  set  apart. 

To  Her 

whose  eyes  came  beaming  light 
And  love  and  dawning 's  quick  surprise 
Into  my  love-dead  soul  of  night — 
Eyes  rich  wjth  all  hues  mingling  clear; 

Benignant  eyes,  dear  blue-and-brown ; 
Keats-emerald  eyes;    sweet  violet  eyes; 

Eyes  speaking  from  the  soul  deep  down; 
Those  wonder-eyes,  kind  lamps  of  cheer — 
To  her  these  songs  I  offer  here! 

To  Her 

of  rich  carnelian  lips, 
Kiss  pure  as  warm  carnation's  kiss 
On  -honey-dews  the  sunrise  sips — 
And  face  whose  smile  of  ruby  light 
To  many  weary  sunless  hearts 
Brings  hope-inspiring  tropic  bliss 

And  every  laughing  joy  imparts 
And  dapples  leaves  and  flowers  with  bright — 
To  her  these  rhythmic  lines  I  write. 


14  The  Ideal 

To  Her 

of  fonder  queenlier  charm 
Than  Esther's  charms,  humanely  royal, 
A  crownless  regal  Grace  in  form, 
Yet  diademed  with  priceless  crown, 

Rare  gems  upon  her  queenly  crest 
Of  mind  and  heart,  divinely  loyal; 

A  placid  harbor  is  her  breast, 
A  great  good  heart  ne'er  anger-blown 

My  anchored  heart  may  trust  the  best — 
Round  her  these  sprays  of  song  are  strown, 
To  her  this  wreath  of  love  is  thrown. 

To  Her 

of  Grecian  form  and  face, 
The  sculptor's  dreamed  ideal  glory, 
With  Venus'  limbs  and  Helen's  grace, 
Unstained  as  vestal  maids  of  Rome, 

Revealing  all  her  charms  of  now 
And  all  the  dreams  of  classic  story — 

Who  lifts  her  hands  in  blessings'  vow 
Above  my  spirit's  temple-dome; 
I  bring  this  blushing  book  of  bloom 
To  her,  my  heart 's  one  only  home ! 

To  Her 

of  iridescent  bright 
Serene  celestial  gifts  of  mind, 
To  her,  the  spirit  exquisite, 
To  her  the  measureless  in  loves 

That  move  my  being  with  their  thrill — 
Who  seeth  all,  yet  seemeth  blind 
When  seeming  blind  is  mercy-kind ! 
Imperial  force  of  heart  and  will, 
Yet  gentler  than  the  pretty  dove's 
Meek  notes  of  pathos  thro'  the  groves — 
To  her  with  songs  he  comes  who  roves! 


Personal  15 

To  Her 

(tho'  years  I  roam  afar 
Unrestful  as  in  primal  age 
The  ark-sent  dove  'neath  sun  and  star 
Roves  o'er  the  waste  that  all  engirds), 

My  heart  is  held,  tho'  unconfined — 
To  her,  the  wiser  than  the  sage, 
I  bring  these  poems  love-enshrined, 
One  book  her  blessing  hath  entwined, 
Fond  notes  as  songs  of  dying  birds 
At  sunset — plaintive  timid  words. 

Yet  Her 

bright  name  might  make  them  great; 
For  living  in  her  thoughts  and  words 
And  name  is  moving  thro'  the  gate 
Of  rooms  resplendent  with  all  bliss, 

Grand  furnishings  of  regal  mind ; 
And,  as  her  halo  there  engirds 

The  singer,  songs  must  be  refined — 
Transfigured  by  this  Esther's  kiss 
They  must  be  budding  great  by  this. 
To  her,  my  H/ove  the  first  the  last, 
These  artless  rhvmes  I  meekly  cast ! 


PERSONAL. 

TO  HER  whose  tender  hand  has  touched  to  raise 

So  many  dying  hopes,  and  not  for  praise; 

Whose    heart    beats    friendship    for    the    throbbing 

world, 

Yet  loves  but  one  always — whose  heart  is  pearled 
With  unpaid  deeds  of  kindness,  and  whose  eyes 
Are  half-way  envied  by  the  violet  skies — 
Whose  eyes  -have  shone  out  on  the  cloudy  ocean, 
On  which,  so  tossing  with  a  wayward  motion, 
My  trembling  bark  of  heart  goes  on  its  sailing — 


16  Why  Sing? 

Have  shone  out,  on  the  routeless  sea,  unfailing, 
As  magnet  light-house  lights  that  God  has  given 
To  win,  and  light  me,  to  the  port  of  Heaven ; 
Whose    life    is    pure,    and    sweet,    and    good,    and 

great — 
To  her  these  humble  songs 

I  DEDICATE. 


WHY  SING? 

You  smile  and  ask  me  why  I  sing? 

'Tis  easier  to  sing  than  tell — 

I  only  know  there  is  a  string 

So  superfine,  its  music  brings 

A  plaintive  voice,  on  gifted  wings, 

That  tries  to  sweeten  wormwood  tears — • 

I  only  know  a  tender  strain, 
Sent  sweetly  through  my  wayless  night, 
Entrances  me;  and  then  I  write 
And  sing  a  yearning  song  again. 

I  only  know  a  golden  lyre 
Gleams  yellowly,  whose  every  wire 
Pours  poetry  along  the  glisten — 
That  I  stand  riveted  and  listen; 
And  so  my  soul  on  timid  wing 
Begins  in  trembling  tone  to  sing. 


NATURE 

CALIFORNIA  SCENES 
CALIFORNIA  SUNRISE. 

A  California  sunrise,  over-fair! 

See,  scarlet-colored  margins  fringed  with  green! 
Lo !   fields  of  red  and  crimson  bordered  there ! 

Here,  blue  expanses  spanned  with  whitened  sheen ! 
Lo !  yellow  banners  floating  in  the  air ! 

Now,  purple  pastures  sweet  as  eye  hath  seen! 
Here,  pink  as  blossoms  mellow  with  delight ! 
O  many-hued,  sky-ocean's  painted  Bight, 
Bent  like  Benin  against  the  shore  of  night ! 


CAPE  HORN  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 

Swift  as  a  hawk  we  sweep  around 
Where  God's  battlements  descend, 
Till  cliffs  rest  on  blooming  ground 
In  the  growing  vale  below; 
Till  this  Eden  to  the  eyes 
Seems  as  distant  as  the  skies ; 
Towering  summits  seem  to  blend 
With  the  stars  that  circle  low, — 
Blend,  and  motionless  attend. 

Circling  round  so  high  and  swift, 
On  this  mid-suspended  rim, 
E'en  the  vale  below  lies  dim, 
And  the  living  seem  to  shift 
In  mid-shadow,  while  we  drift 
Near  where  the  planets  smile  above ; 
And  the  heart  with  tender  love 


18  Rocks  of  Monterey 

In  its  fancy  would  address  them, 
In  its  rapturous  joy  caress  them, — 
And  the  heart,  its  love  confessing, 
Would  on  Nature's  heart,  caressing, 
Lay  its  silent  hands  in  blessing. 
But  the  soul  feels  the  Divine, 
Begs  forgiveness  by  a  sign, 
Bows  in  awe  at  Nature's  shrine. 


ROCKS  OF  MONTEREY. 
(From  the  Overland  Monthly.) 

Brown  rocks,  frayed  edges  of  the  lands, 
Enfigured  with  a  netted  work 
Of  woods  of  pine,  where  blossoms  lurk 

Beneath  fern  leaves  as  'neath  green  hands, — 

Worn  rocks,  the  finger-raveled  edges 

By  finger-tips  of  Monterey, 

A  queenly  hand,  the  mobile  bay, 
More  gemmed  than  princess'  hands  with  pledges, 

Lorn  rocks,  so  torn  and  fringed  by  fingers, — 
In-carved  with  shapes  and  shadings  rare, 
Arranged  in  color-patterns  fair, — 

One  turns  to  go,  yet  ever  lingers! — 

Gray  rocks,  upon  whose  foldings  grand 
Made  ivory-smooth  by  sweeping  spray, 
The  fingers  of  the  tidal  bay 

Play  organ-tunes  along  the  strand, — 

Rough  rocks,  yet  in  perspective  seen, 

A  girth  of  every  gorgeous  hue 

And  mellow  shades  wrought  thro'  and  thro' 
Of  purple-blue  and  water-green, — 


Two  Departures — Tamalpais  19 

Lone  rocks,  the  chosen,  safe  retreat 
For  shy  unbosomings  of  love, 
While  stars,  and  white,  thin  mists  above 

Give  beauty  to  the  water's  fleet, 

And,  woman-wise  and  man-discreet, 

The  sympathetic,  bounding  seas 

On  rocks,  stern-kind  in  sympathies, 
More  loud  than  lovers'  voices  beat. 

How  o'er  the  granite  keys  they  play! 

These  rhythmic  fingers  pearly  white, 

With  rings  of  emerald  and  light, 
Topaz  and  amethystine  ray. 

Thou  beauteous  hand,  thou  matchless  bay, 
I  love  thy  jeweled  glow,  thy  spray, 
Thy  myriad  splendors  in  the  day, 
Thy  bridal  omens,  when  the  drifted 
Star-gems  so  fairy -like  are  sifted. 

-x 

I  sit  the  fringed  rocks  among; 
I  feel  thy  finger-touch  magnetic; 
I  see  thee  weaving  things  prophetic, — 
All  thoughts  profound,  sublime,  pathetic, 
Strength  for  the  old,  joy  for  the  young! 


TWO  DEPARTURES— TAMALPAIS. 

While  Tamalpais'  fair  " Sleeping  Beauty"  lay 
With   face   turned   skyward   and   with   locks   to 

south, 
Disheveled  veiled  the  sloping  mountain  way, 

The  sun  went  west  from  Alcatraz'  stern  isle, 
Then  kissed  with  glowing  lip  the  tidal  mouth 


20  City  of  the  Golden  Gate 

Of  San  Francisco's  mobile  matchless  bay, 

E'er  exquisitely  parted  with  its  smile — 
With  rosy  hand  then  waved  farewells  to  night, 
Then  swept  beyond  into  the  westward  light 
To  revel  'mid  Pacific  islands  bright. 

So  doth  thy  soul,  more  free,  more  bright  than  sun, 

With  earthly  loves,  asleep  in  beauty,  left 
On  Time's  Tamalpais'  mount-tops  one  by  one, 

From  militant  and  fortressed  isles  of  earth, 
Move  Godward,  and,  with  lips  aglow  and  cleft, 
Doth  kiss  the  tidal  mouth,  that  lures  anon, 

Of  Aidenn's  isled  seas  of  jeweled  worth — 
With  spirit-hand  then  wave  farewells  to  time, 
Then  wing  beyond  to  that  Elysian  clime 
To  dwell  amid  its  endless  scenes  sublime. 


CITY  OF  THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 
[Written  June,  1901.] 

Here  stand  two  sunlit  battlements, 

The  pillars  of  the  Golden  Gate, 

They,  many  a  year  of  olden  date, 
As  angel-builded  resting  tents 
Have  seemed  to  weary,  beaten  ships 

Which  gleamed  with  eyes,  with  griefs  untold, 
That  gazed  above  stern-bitten  lips — 

Dreamed  o'er  their  loves,  but  gazed  for  gold. 

A  gate  between  of  shining  wave 
Swings  always,  always  out  and  in. 

Here  feet  find  rest — some  hearts  a  grave, 
And  hopes  fulfill,  or  die  by  sin. 

And,  as  a  mouth  drilled  thro'  the  mounts, 
It  seemed  to  breathe  a  breath  of  gold 


City  of  the  Golden  Gate  21 

Out  of  the  deep-gorged  peaks  that  hold 
Their  mints  of  minerals  and  the  founts 
Of  blessed  streams,  with  beds  of  treasure 

And  banks  of  wealth  and  blooming  glory — 
Where  Nature  is  eternal  pleasure, 

And  trees  are  green,  when  Time  is  hoary. 

And — like  a  large  rich-laden  flower 

Of  gorgeous  hue  and  deepest  sweet 

Where  bees  crowd  on  with  fretting  feet — 
The  bay  blooms  up,  with  under-power, 
From  ocean's  heart  of  trembling  blue; 

And  men  crowd  on  its  restless  rim, 
Where  steeples  tower  and  banners  flow, 

And  sunny  winds  float  sound  of  hymn. 

The  city  of  the  Golden  Gate- 
Shall  she  be  built  a  grand  and  fit 
Metropolis?     Or  she  forget 

The  Builder  "6  f  all  good  and  great, 
Till  He  shall  strike  His  fiery  hand 

Beneath  the  proud  magnificent 

And  sink  her  streets  of  hollow  sand — 

And  sea-swirl  lull  her  discontent? 

Shall  she  become  the  dream  fulfilled 

Of  Poe's  fantastic  poetry — 

Become  "The  City  in  the  Sea" 
And  ocean  tread  the  iron-willed? 
And  rocks  rise  up  in  wrath  and  close 

The  eye-entrancing  Golden  Gate, 
And  leave  it  to  a  strange  repose, 

Or  winds'  and  sea-waves  long  debate? 


22  Shasta 


SHASTA. 

Amid  clear  chanting  waterfalls,  and  'mid 

The  silent  listening  and  enchanted  pines, 
Beneath  whose  stately,  manly  size  are  hid, 
Like  nestling  children,  beauteous  shrubs  and 

vines — 
Strong-natured  pines  upon  the  slopes  arranging 

In  amphitheatred,  encircling  lines, 
Eternal  list'ners  to  the  ever-changing, 
Yet  ever-changeless,  chanting  waterfalls 
With  flowing,  ebbing,  sounding,  whisp'ring  calls. 

'Mid  forest  shades  beneath  that  wonder  sky 

Of  mountain  California  with  her  sun 
That  seldom  clouds,  I  lift  my  eager  eye 

Across  the  laughing,  leaping  sun-spots  as  they  run 
Athro'  the  shadows  round  me  super-fair — 
Creep  thro'  the  shrubs,  climb  up  the  vines  in  air — 
In  gentle  swiftness  lest  themselves  they  lose 
'Mid  sun-browned  shadows'  dusty-footed  shoes. 

Thus  looking  out  beyond  the  singing  world 
About  my  musing,  'trancing  place  of  rest, 

Behold !    A  looming,  luring  vision  set  impearled 
Upon  the  heaven  of  blue,  eternal,  blest, 

Beams  Shasta  glorified,  pure  pearl  of  white; 

More  grand  than  Mars,  more  bright  than  Venus' 
light. 

Olympus  dwindles  'neath  thy  flashing  glories, 

As  shrink,  in  manhood,  childhood's  wonder-stories. 

But  chosen  words  are  but  as  smoke  and  dust 
That  dim  the  splendors  one  would  thrust  to 
view — 


Sacramento  Valley  in  Spring  23 

But  as  the  sins  of  men  before  the  vision  thrust 
To  taint  the  whiteness  of  the  great  white  throne  of 

God. 

Or  shrink  its  grandeur — mar  the  snow-white  hue : 
Shall  words  rush  in  where  angels  meekly  trod? 


SACRAMENTO  VALLEY  IN  SPRING. 

With  oaks  of  never-fading  green 

And  banks  of  changing  green  and  brown 
And,  like  the  very  stars  come  down, 
Strown  yellow-bloomed,  and  set  between 
With  every  hue  that  sky  hath  seen! 

Old  live-oaks,  tressed  with  mistletoe 
Uncombed,  unclipt,  and  old  as  they, 
Beneath  whose  shades  the  blossoms  play, 
While  sweet  winds  make  the  new  buds  blow 
And  sparkle  in  the  morning  glow ! 

Thus  Sacramento  in  her  bloom 
And  Nature's  rhapsody  of  spring, 
When  love  and  beauty  smile  and  swing 

Their  scenes  and  censers  of  perfume 

Below  Sierra's  snowy  plume. 


24  In  the  Desert  Land — Overland 


OTHER  SCENIC  PIECES 


IN  THE  DESERT— OVERLAND. 

Overland  !     The  sterile  lands, 

How  they  glitter  in  the  eye ! 

While  the  hot  airs  stand  and  shimmer, 

As  a  million  spirit-wands, 

With  their  hot  and  blinding  glimmer, 

Till  the  only  thought  is— DRY ! 

Sand  and  sun — and  sun  and  sand ! 
Till  the  heart  is  skeptic  guessing 
Why  this  desolation  spread! 
Why  the  sun  the  sands  should  wed, 
With  no  single  child  of  blessing — 
With  but  sultry  winds  to  whirl  them, 
And  the  whirlwind  sent  to  swirl  them? 
Ah  !    we  cannot  understand  ! 

Skeletons  on  ways  of  sands ! 
Lo !    the  pale  clouds,  overdrifting. 
Go  up  higher,  as  forever 
Shunning  their  eternal  sifting — 
Clouds  up-reaching  their  thin  hands, 
As  imploring:     ''Blue  skies,  never 
Leave  us  to  this  sandy  shifting, 
And  its  breath  of  burning  fever!" 

Sand  between  two  fertile  strands — 
0,  how  like  the  broken-hearted ; 
Sand  between  two  holy  lands, 
Land  of  age  and  youth  departed ! 
Out  from  youth's  green  garden  hurried 
Still-born  hopes  with  folded  hands 
Are  by  sands  of  dead  faith  buried. 


Indian  Summer  on  the  Plains  25 

God,  we  yield!    we  may  not  know 

All  the  sweetness  born  of  woe ! 

Who  shall  say,  though  desert-worried, 

If  this  desolate  repose 

May  not  blossom  as  the  rose. 


HUMBOLDT  LAKE. 

Here  it  lies  in  silentness, 

Lonely  in  a  lonely  waste, 
Banks  of  sand  and  alkali — 
Silent  till  the  thoughts  oppress — 

Smooth   as  pavements   marble-faced, 
Smooth  and  colored  as  the  sky. 

One  lon^  dwelling  on  its  beach, 

One  lone  bird,  with  note  nor  word, 

Drifting,  as  if  naught  to  choose, 

Despondently  and  out  of  reach! — 
Leave  this  listless,  lonesome  bird — 

This  strange  mirage  of  dancing  hues ! 


INDIAN  SUMMER  ON  THE  PLAINS. 

Grass!    grass!    plashing,  plashing  under  the  hollow 

glass 

Held,  hung,  and  hollowed  over  the  world  of  grass ! 
Sky  of  glass,  palm  of  the  hand  of  God  on  high ! 
Grass  and   sky  under  and   over,   filling   the   world 

and  eye ! 
Space !   space !   and  never  a  sign  and  never  a  single 

trace 
Of  fallen  cities,  or  where  a  tyrant  has  set  his  face ! 


26  Indian  Summer  on  the  Plains 

Far,  far  away  look  at  a  setting  star, 

With  never  a  forest,  nor  even  a  single  spar, 

Far,  far  a-reach  from  a  single  tree  to  mar 

The  streaming  light — to  throw  on  the  face  a  bar! 

Flowers !    flowers !    taller,  grander,  standing  above 

as  towers 
Over  a  roof  of  green! — Now  falling  their  leaves  in 

showers. 
Bloom!     bloom!     fading,    falling,    falling    away    in 

gloom ! 
Green !     green !     falling    away,    going    down    to    a 

tomb ! 

Roof!  roof  of  green  wrought  in  wonderful  woof 
Over  the  world  as  a  temple,  you  wrought  as  a  roof; 
Flowers,  as  towers,  now  that  the  crisping  hours 
Come,    temple,    towers,    all   fading,    falling   your 

powers ! 
Stand !    stand !    gray,   brown,   dead   as  a  withered 

hand, 

Gray  as  a  ruined  temple  in  an  old  and  fabled  land ! 
Gales  !    gales  !    swift  running  and  whirling !    wails 
Sounding  from  under  the  chariot  wheels!    gales 
Whirling  the  dust,  tossing  the  grass,  flapping  the 

veils — 
Veils !  veils  of  Indian  summer  smoke  walking  the 

air  with  trails ! 

Red!    red  light  of  the  sun — face  of  the  moon  o'er- 

spread ! 
Redder  than  anything  living,  redder  than  anything 

dead, 
Red  in  the  struggle   of   death,   neither   living   nor 

dead — 
This  is  Indian  summer — red,  painfully  red ! 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT 

FRIENDSHIP 

SONG  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  leaves  are  turning  brown  now 

That  fold  the  blow  of  soul; 
Yet  younger  grows  the  inner  bloom 

Within  its  blossom-bowl, — 
But  of  all  the  young  flowers  in  the  heart 

Resplendent  yet  in  youth, 
Hail !    new-born  flower  of  friendship, 

Planed  by  thee  and  truth ! 

Chorus. 

So  the  days  may  flower  and  fall,  Jo, 

Around  the  golden  blow 
That  swings  and  swings  so  young  yet, 

Where — none  but  thee  shall  know. 

The  smiles  were  growing  old,  Jo, 

Sad  and  unreconciled, 
And  wandered  o'er  the  face,  Jo, 

Uncertain,  tear-beguiled. 
Dearly  the  smiles  dropped  on  the  cheeks, 

Blooms  from  the  stems  of  joy, 
That  bended  with  their  smile-bloom, 

When  life  was  but  a  boy. 

Chorus. 


28  A  Dirge 

Kisses  may  still  betray,  Jo, 

And  hands  belie,  and  words 
Be  said  as  fond  as  songs  sung, 

Yet  be  as  mocking  birds, 
And  utter  as  fair  and  sweet  a  strain 

Out  of  as  false  a  soul; 
But  eyes  are  truth,  and  yours,  Jo, 

Shine  all  its  sweet  control. 

Chorus. 

Loves  are  as  blooming  moments 

That  melt  like  summer  snow ; 
But  friendship,  as  a  cent'ry  flower, 

Conceals  its  budding  glow 
Under  the  living  leaves  of  heart 

(While  loves  expand  and  pass), 
And  sways  at  last  its  full  bloom 

Over  the  "sea  of  glass." 

Chorus. 

(Tune,  The  Croquet  Song.) 


A  DIRGE 

Talk  low;   it  is  done, 
His  love-hope  is  dead. 
Go,  lay  it  alone; 
Its  glory  is  fled — 
Go,  bear  it  as  one 
Bears — sorrowful  tread  !- 
Dead  longings  in  lead. 

The  bud  that  was  fair 
Will  never  be  bloom; 


Is  Spring  for  All?  29 

'Tis  covered  in  brown 
Leaves,  dead  as  despair, 
Slain  by  its  own  gloom — 
Leaves  dead  and  dropped  down. 

The  star  is  gone  over — 

Is  set  in  the  sea, 

Which  gloometh,  where  hover 

Ill-bodings  to  me ! 

The  star,  as  the  clovers 

Swirled  under  the  dust, 

Rolls  under  the  tosst 

Sea,  cold  as  dead  lovers, 

And  pale  as  a  bust. 

The  cheek  that  was  red 
Is  paler  than  shrouds — 
Is  colder  than  lead! 
The  beauty  of  dawn, 
Bla«k-veiled  in  the  clouds 
Of  mourning,  is  gone ! 


IS  SPRING  FOR  ALL? 

Yes;  they  tell  me  spring  is  coming, 

With  the  drumming 
Of  the  builder, 

And  the  humming 
Something  milder 

Than  the  sighing 
Winds  of  winter  is  the  flying 

Of  the  bumble-bee  and  birds ; 
But  those  lying 

Sick  and  dying, 
What  are  these  or  what  are  words? 


30  Is  Spring  for  All? 

Can  they  tell  them 
Of  its  beauty 

So  as  to  make  the 
Longing  light? 

Can  they  spell  them 
In  their  duty, 

Lying  prostrate,  and  awake  the 
Ling 'ring  day  and  half  the  night? 

Thus  to  take  to  them  delight? 

Many  seeds 

That,  in  September, 
Fell  'mong  weeds, 

From  many  a  member, 
Frosted, 

Have  been  blasted, 
And  will  never  sprout 

And  grow — 
Never  will  come  out 

And  blow — 
Never  know, 

And  never  feel,  the  break  of  winter  for  a 

Spring. 
So  of  many 

Youths  of  life 
And  love  and  beaut}'  in  the  fall 

Have  not  any 
Quit  the  strife? 

To  how  many  graves  we  bring — 
Graves  of  those  we  would  remember — 

Flowers  that  passed  through  cold  Decem 
ber 
And  outlived  the  loved  we  weep, 

The  wept  that  sleep? 


Edgar  A.  Poe  31 

EDGAR  A.   POE. 

I. 

Weird  meteor  of  a  doleful  dye 

Thus  flaming  in  a  gloomy  sky, 

As  wayward  as  a  comet  wild, 

Thou  strange,  romantic,  unknown  child, 

A  bust  of  deep,  unearthly  woe, 

Mysterious,  morbid,  dreamy  Poe! 

II. 

Lamented  be  the  day  that  found 
Thy  storm-swept  vessel  rockward  bound ; 
And  doubly  cursed  the  fatal  day 
When  thy  lone  lifeboat  shattered  lay 
In  floating  fragments  o  'er  the  sea  ! — 
A  mournful  loss  when  Heaven  lost  thee! 

III. 

Thou  wast  an  angel  strayed  to  earth, 
Thy  voice  commingling  with  the  mirth, 
And  dreaming,  not  of  gloom,  but  joy 
And  Heavn'n  and  beauty,  fair-haired  boy: 
But  " fallen!"  what  a  word  of  wail! 
What  ranks  of  anguish  crowd  its  trail! 

IV. 

Who  knows  the  swelling  veins  of  gall 
That  rent  thy  soul  when  thou  didst  fall4? 
Who  knows  the  quenchless  flame  that  fired — 
Consumed  thy  peace,  and  then  expired 
And  left  the  evil  all  unburned — 
The  ashes  of  thy  soul  unurned? 


32  That  Dreamless  Sleep 

THAT  DREAMLESS  SLEEP. 

A  Song  for  Life. 

I. 

We  muse,  in  measured  tones  of  woe: 
"0  for  the  deep  and  dreamless  sleep!" 

Then  smile  an  interlude  of  "No!" — 
"Ah,  Life,  delusion-crowned  and  steep, 

I  choose  the  silent  rest  below!" 

We  sing,  but  break  the  rhyme  to  leap, 

To  looming  peaks,  illusive-bright, 

Then  chafe  to  rise  to  loftier  height. 

'Tis  easy  uttered  in  the  light ; 

Tis  easy  spoken  in  the  play, 
But  well  repented  of,  when  night 

Suggests  the  darkness  and  decay — 
The  hollow  silentness  and  blight, 

When  we  are  still  and  put  away — 
Yea,  then  we  fear,  and  cry:   "Forgive! 
Repeat,  0  years,  repeat,  and  live!" 

II. 

Lone,  like  a  single  stem  of  wheat 
Left  leaning  o'er  a  headed  field, 

And,  bending  with  untimely  heat, 
A  queenly  chastened  woman  kneeled, 

And  paled  to  hear  herself  repeat 

That  wish — few  hearts  have  ever  sealed ;- 
We  chant  it  sunward  on  the  breeze, 

Then  pray:    "Be  broken  in  the  trees!" 

Her  child,  the  seal  of  peaceful  love, 
Had  melted  in  the  breath  of  God 

And  flown,  like  incense  sweet  above ; 
And  friends  had  fallen  to  the  sod — 


That  Dreamless  Sleep 

Left  her  to  grieve  a  mateless  dove, 
In  ways  of  night  all  newly  trod; 
She  moans  above  her  dead  delight, 
1  'I  die!    I  fly  beyond  this  night!" 

But  words  are  like  alluring  signs 

To  tell  not  all,  or  tell  amiss, 
The  thoughts  within  the  secret  lines; 

And  grief  may  picture  signs  of  bliss, 
As  bliss  may  seem  to  bloom  in  wines — 

And,  when  the  pale  god  came  to  kiss 
The  white  seal  on  her  lifted  brow, 
She  thrust  it  back— "Not  now!    Not  now!" 

The  dead  face  of  a  love  may  stare 

Away  the  quiet  of  the  breast ; 
The  dead  kiss  of  a  child  may  wear 

Away  the  lips  of  early  rest. 
Now  days  o^.  grief  to  her  are  fair, 

For,  while  her  life  swings  in  the  "West, 
The  hours  go  up  with  shining  wings 
Sweet  with  the  "song  for  life"  she  sings. 

III. 

With  purpose  stronger  than  the  oaks, 

And  aspirations  tall  as  pines 
Above  the  mountain-crowning  rocks — 

With  wits  that  shone  as  diamond  mines — 
With  fine-cut  face,  Adonis  locks, 

A  youth  broke  through  the  twining  vines 
Of  young  affections,  into  strife, 
Which,  won,  is  pain — which,  lost,  is  life ! 

He  ran  the  labyrinthine  way 

Of  learning  swift  as  love  in  youth, 

He  rose! — He  fell — aye,  in  a  day! — 
Those  hearts  he  sacrificed  in  ruth; 

His  rude  deeds  to  the  heads  of    gray ; 


34  That  Dreamless  Sleep 

His  subtle  dodges  with  the  truth; 
Deserted  friendships,  whose  frank  eyes 
Ran  tears  of  blood  from  broken  ties; — 

These  deeds  hung  on  him,  ill-voiced  seers, 

As  dry  leaves  on  the  dying  oak, 
And  rustled  their  eternal  jeers. — 

He  watched  the  going  up  of  smoke, 
And  dared  to  utter,  through  his  fears; 

''Take  up  the  life  ambition  broke! 
The  ismoke  ascends  and  melts  in  peace — 
Thus,  life,  like  incense,  find  release!" 

The  night  poured  down  the  way  he  trod; 

In  midnight  dusk  and  silvery  light, 
The  moon  gleamed  like  an  eye  of  'God ; 

And,  like  angelic  eyes  by  night, 
A  thousand  stars  shone  out  abroad — 

And  moon  and  stars,  with  glistening  might, 
Seemed  searching  out  his  covered  thoughts 
And  frowning  on  his  coward  plots. 

His  heart  strikes  weary  fists  with  fate, 
Which  beats  it  till  it  bleeds,  and  he 

Goes  down  beneath  the  ruthless  weight, 
Like  tents  beat  down  upon  the  lea — 

And  then  he  calls,  "Unlock  death's  gate!" 
And  loudly  knocks — "Swing  back  for  me!" 

But,  when  ajar,  how  quick  to  cry: 

"Swing  shut!    quick,  quick!    I  will  not  die!" 

IV. 

We  look  up  at  the  happy  stars, 

That  shed  like  gleams  of  peace  their  beams ; 
We  look  in  on  the  thousand  scars 

And  pangs  of  heart,  then  speak  in  dreams, 
Not  all  of  sleep — "Death,  end  these  wars 

Which  keep  us  from  pacific  streams 


That  Dreamless  Sleep  35 

That  wind  yon  star-delightsome  land!" 
Then  wake  and  tremble  where  we  stand. 

Then  wake  and  tremble  that  we  dared 
To  dream  of  parting  hands  with  dust, 

Till  dust  should  more  than  be  impaired — 
Should  fall  in  pieces  fine  as  rust; 

And  few  have  then  so  far  despaired 
That  they  could  lay  the  crumbled  trust, 

With  no  regret,  to  whence  it  came — 

Could  welcome  what  our  dreams  declaim. 


V. 

Flowered  in  the  splendor  of  her  youth, 

And  tossed  by  every  balmy  stir, 
Of  atmospheres  of  spring  and  truth, 

More  fair  than  all  fair  things  that  were, 
Unscarred  by  any  touch  of  ruth, 
And  un-embittered  by  the  myrrh 
That  comes  to  many  maidens,  she 
Was  won  to  love's  dear  rhapsody. 

The  snows  flowed  down;   the  flowers  came  up; 

The  birds  went  over;    golden  bees 
Dug  in  their  mines,  and  bore  their  cup 

And  bars  of  gold;  and  summer  seas 
Went  on,  as  stars  came  down  to  sup — 

Still  smiling  at  his  winsome  pleas 
And,  playing  in  the  meads  of  pleasure, 
She  moved  to  love's  redundant  measure. 

Go  over,  birds;  and,  gold-winged  star, 
Come  down  to  sup ;  and,  seas  of  fame, 

Come  in;  and,  bees,  bear  cup  and  bar 
Of  gold;  and  flowers,  arise  and  flame — 

Another  came  her  joy  to  mar 

Who  won  her  lover;   hence  she  came 


36  That  Dreamless  Sleep 

To  seek  the  river's  deadly  pall, — 

But  shrank,  and  clasped  this  life  of  gall ! 

Sing  not  of  those,  whose  spirits  stray 
Insanely  through  a  fancied  night ! 

They  of  a  frenzy  plunge  away — 

No  logic  plans,  but  pangs  and  blight 

Have  sprung  the  balance;  so  that  they 
Are  worse  then  dead,  and  have  no  might 

To  will  for  life  or  death; — 'tis  these 

That  fall  by  self,  the  shattered  trees! 

VI. 

When  friends  have  passed  the  silent  door, 
And  loves,  as  birds  through  broken  panes, 

Have  flown,  but  left  their  spots  of  gore, 
We  sit  among  those  darling  stains, 

And  say:     "  'Tis  done!    I  strive  no  more! 
Shut  down  the  blinds !    The  best  of  gains 

Is  rest  of  rests  ! ' ' — We  whisper  low, 

Then  meet  the  echo  with  our,  "No!" 

VII. 

In  keen,  illusive  action  taught 
We  wind  our  life  into  a  ball — 

As  acrobats,  then  toss  the  thought 
As  one  would  toss  a  thought  of  gall — 

So  wildly  tossed, — yet  shrewdly  caught. 
We  feign — yet  fling  it  but  to  fall 

Back  to  the  hands  that  hurled  it  fro, 

Then  kiss  the  Life  we  feigned  to  throw. 

VIII. 

My  lamp  looks  in  my  weary  eyes, 
And  seethes  its  sorrowful  complaint. 

And  seems  to  call  in  endless  sighs: 

"Turn  down  the  wick!    I  burn  in  vain!" 


That  Dreamless  Sleep  37 

But,  when  I  would,  it  strives  to  rise, 
And  flares  its  wish  to  burn  again; 
"Turn  down  the  Life!"  'tis  swiftly  sighed, 
Then  swift  repented,  and  denied. 

IX. 

0  Love,  thou  wild,  ungoverned  god! 

Thou  rude  executor  of  lives  ! 
Uncertain  plowing  human  sod  — 

With  keenest  of  all  pruning  knives 
Cutting  our  peace  off  bud  by  bud  ! 

Thy  blood-plashed  plow,  it  drives  and  drives 
Its  red  share  thro'  the  roots  of  soul 
Uprooting  every  cherished  bole. 


Yea,  who  can  iyeak  that  power,  that  breaks 
A  million  hearts,  and  yet  can  smile  ; 

And  peaceful  sleeps,  and  joyful  wakes  — 
A  million  more  hearts  leads  to  guile, 

To  where  the  light  of  hope  forsakes. 
I  saw  one  join  that  sombre  file 

Of  those  who  bear  the  tarnished  urns 

Of  dusts  of  peace  —  that  ne'er  returns. 

She  died  not  quick,  as  day  goes  down, 
Nor  quick  as  flowers  that  droop  by  frost; 

As  California's  April-grown 

Luxuriant  grass  half  blossom-lost,  — 

She  slowly  died;  as  it  turns  brown 

By  summer  drought,  and  dust  embossed, 

Returns  to  dust.     Her  pallid  face 

Death  crowded  graveward  space  by  space. 

But  even  she  looked  back  to  earth, 

And  yearned  for  years.   They  were  not  much 
To  such  as  she;  and  yet  their  dearth 

Was  worth  her  wish.     Ah  !  worth  the  touch 
Of  beads  of  prayer,  —  "Tho'  void  of  mirth, 


That  Dreamless  Sleep 

Let  speed  the  >steed  of  life;  for  such 
Is  better  than  the  breathless  bed 
Where  I  must  sleep,  when  I  am  dead!" 

And,  when  she  fell,  as  shivered  bust, 
Down  from  the  saddle,  in  the  race, 

Her  last  words  were:    "Yea,  G-od  is  just; 
But,  oh!  to  lie  with  upturned  face, 

Yet  see  no  skies — !    Lie  in  the  must 
And  chill  of  that  deep  breathless  place  !- 

Oh !  let  me  stay  with  life  and  sorrow, 

At  least,  till  one  more  sweet  to-morrow ! ' ' 

And,  when  her  voice  had  died  to  rest, 

In  all  the  agonies  of  signs, 
She  cried  for  life ! — It  may  be  best, 

"We  dread  to  drop  the  slender  lines, 
So  still  ride  on,  though  sable-dressed, 

And  cling  to  life,  as  clinging  vines, 
And,  when  we  crumble,  stir  our  dust 
To  transient  life,  to  plead  for  "trust." 


Like  pictures  on  the  silent  walls, 

We  hang  our  lives,  then  turn  to  leave ; 

When,  hearing  something  in  the  halls, 
We  fear  some  ghosts,  we  would  deceive, 

Are  stealing  in  with  secret  palls 

To  take  the  lives  we  seem  to  grieve — 

We  turn  and  seize  them  quick  with  trembling 

And  own  the  truth  we  were  dissembling! 

XL 

We  plan  to  sparkle  like  the  dew — 

To  sparkle  through  an  hundred  years — 

To  sparkle  like  the  splendid  few 

Sweet  drops  that  crown  the  upper  spears ; 


That  Dreamless  Sleep 

But,  learning,  all  too  soon  and  true, 

That  those  which  lie  unseen,  as  tears 
We  never  shed,  outlive  the  rest, 
We  fall  to  common  lots  at  best; 

To  getting  gain,  and  garments  spun 
Enough  for  needs ;  and  take  to  ease ! 

We  rise  not  in  the  beating  sun ; 
We  take  to  shadows  of  the  trees. 

We  turn  from  all  we  might  have  won 
To  hammocks  swung  in  healthful  breeze 

And  grateful  choose  a  life  discreet 

Where  death  comes  with  belated  feet. 

So  loves  may  die ;  and  hearts  may  break 
And  fortunes  sink,  as  vain  as  dust; 

And  forms  may  sleep,  to  never  wake — 
Come  all  things  that  may  wear  or  rust, 

Or  life  can  give,  or  life  could  take, 
We  beg  of  Nature  longer  trust, 

Before  we  pay  the  debt,  whose  claim 

Takes  all,  except  the  chiseled  name! 

Come  back,  then,  years  that  sorrow  stole ! 

Come  back,  0  days,  that  folly  slew! 
Come  back,  0  Life,  too  near  the  goal! 

The  deeds  against  thee,  Life,  undo ! 
0  Life,  unroll  the  wrinkled  scroll! 

Come  back,  0  Life,  we  would  be  true — 
We  love  thee  well — would  give  all  things, 
Ere  thee,  0  Life,  with  speeding  wings! 


40  Since  Thou  Art  Not  Here 

OUR  MARIAN. 

I. 

As  kind  is  our  Marian  as  dew, 
The  kindest  of  all  that  is  true- 
No  breath  of  the  tropics  so  mild, 
As  mild  as  the  smile  of  a  child; 
As  rich  are  thine  eyes  as  the  fold 
Of  light  through  a  mantle  of  gold. 

II. 

As  gentle  as  tropical  bowers — 
Yet  mingled  with  lovable  powers. 
As  pure  as  Elysian  perfume 
Is  thy  heart  of  a  Paradise  bloom — 
Yea,  purer  than  all  that  is  pure 
By  purity  rendered  secure. 

III. 

And  faith  thou  hast  flowing  as  fountains, 

And  strong  as  the  masterful  mountains, 

The  kindest  and  truest — a  friend, 

That  boldest  fast  unto  the  end — 

Our  dear  little  lovable  Girl, 

Our  deep-hearted,  bright-hearted  Pearl ! 


SINCE  THOU  ART  NOT  HERE. 

I. 

There's  a  laugh  in  the  treetop,  a  smile  in  the  sky, 
And  the  birds  with  their  merriment  filling   the 
glade, 

And  many  a  matron  with  love  in  her  eye, 
And  jollity  sporting  around  in  the  shade — 


Since  Thou  Art  Not  Here  41 

But  the  mirth  in  my  eye,  it  is  courting  a  tear — 
Tho'  I  smile,  my  heart  weepeth,  since  thou  art  not 
here. 

II. 

The  jest  ringeth  round  in  a  circle  of  joy; 

And  mine  chimeth  in  with  the  chorus  of  laugh, 
And  none  ever  dreams  of  a  thought  to  annoy 

The  sweetness  and  gayety  born,  as  we  quaff 
Such  respite  of  care.  But,  alas !  in  their  cheer, 
Tho'  I  laugh,  I  am  lonely,  since  thou  art  not  here. 

III. 

Tho'   strong   is   the   friendship,   that   welcomes  me 

home 

To  the  hearths  of  the  noble  and  good  of  our  land, 
And  tender  the  ties  that  would  bid  me  not  roam, 
And   warm   is  their  kiss   and   the   grip   of   their 

hand, 
Yet  I  cannot  but  roam  from   these   ties,   that   are 

near, 
While  thou  art  far  dearer,  and  'way  from  me  here. 

IV. 

My  heart  leapeth  high,  as  I  sit  by  the  side 
Of  the  fairest  of  sisters,  companion  of  youth ; 

And  her  eye,  like  the  light  on  the  incoming  tide, 
Shines  up  into  mine  with  its  love  and  its  truth — 

There  is  peace  in  her  gaze,  yet  it  bringeth  a  tear; 

For,  oh !  it  reminds  me  that  thou  art  not  here. 

V. 

There's  many  a  maiden,  too,  gathering  flowers, 
And    throwing    about    me    the    bloom    and    their 
smiles, 


42  Live  and  Let  Live 

While    the    gold-gilded    moments    string    off    into 

hours ; 

Yet  my  fancy  the  brightest  maid  never  beguiles 
Away   from   thy    flowers    and   thy   smile    with    its 

cheer — 
And  the   day   groweth  longer,   since   thou  art  not 

here. 

VI. 

And,  when  meditation  comes  on  with  the  eve, 
And  I  loiter  alone,  in  my  musing  I  sigh. 

They  chide  me  for  weeping  and  wonder  I  grieve 
With   such  happiness  here   and  a  Christ  in  the 
sky. 

Then  I  go  to  my  chamber  and  plead,  with  a  tear, 

That  Jesus  may  shield  thee,  since  thou  art  not  here. 

VII. 

And  the  lamp  of  his  love  cometh  down  with  the 

night, 

And  I  go  to  my  rest  by  the  light  of  its  beams. 
And  my  slumber  is  sweetened  by  thoughts  of  de 
light; 

And  I  fancy  I'm  with  thee  again  in  my  dreams — 
Which  go  with  the  morning,  which  comes  with   a 

tear, 
And  still  I  am  lonely  and  thou  art  not  here. 


LIVE  AND  LET  LIVE. 

Strive?   to  be  sure  we  should  strive,  till  we  thrill 
Our  being  with  struggles  of  muscle  and  mind. 

But,  ah!   is  the  world  but  a  canyon-like  rill, 

With  room  but  for  one  and  no  room  to  be  kind? 

Full  wide  is  the  river  to  work  and  forgive, 

Nor  tangle  our  oars  as  we  live  and  let  live. 


Live  and  Let  Live  43 

The  diligent  hand  may  wax  rich  without  harm 
To  other  hands  reaching  the  bounties  of  life. 

But,  alas!   that  so  many  are  cast  in  a  storm 
By  those  who  would  gather  the  wreck  of  their 
strife. 

We  sift  all  the  grain  through  and  leave  in  the  sieve 

The  chaff  for  a  brother :  nor  live  and  let  live. 

It  is  nothing  humane  that  we  sift  the  grain  thro', 
Then  cast  to  a  brother  the  leavings  of  chaff. 

It  is  nothing  humane  that  we  make  a  storm  strew 
The  strength  of  our  foes,  as  we  gather,  and  quaff 

Our  glasses  of  gains,  and  we  smile  as  they  grieve. 

He  only  lives  well,  wrho  can  live  and  let  live. 

It  is  nothing  humane  if  a  neighbor  should  strain 
A  weary,  thin  hand  for  the  gladness  of  life, 

That  swords  of  our  avarice  strike  it  and  stain 
With  blood  of  defeat  the  one  weaker  in  strife: 

There's  a  kernel  for  each  in  Life's  beautiful  sieve, 

And  chaff  for  the  wind,  if  we  live  and  let  live. 

There  is  room  on  the  tide  of  Life's  changeable  way 
For  all  who  go  rowing  to  pass  and  return 

And  never  strike  oars,  as  we  sprinkle  with  spray 
The    brothers    who    pass    with    the    prizes    they 
earn — 

With  sprays  of  delight  that  they  win,  as  we  give 

Clear  way  to  the  weaker,  and  live  and  let  live. 

It  is  better  to  wring  from  inanimate  earth, 
By  resolute  effort,  the  wealth  we  desire 

Than  wring  from  a  brother  the  wealth  he  brought 

forth 
From  the  tempests  of  sin,  or  the  furnace  of  fire. 

How  many,  alas!  are  refusing  to  give 

Fair  way  to  a  foe.  and  to  live  and  let  live. 


44  Lament  of  Mrs.  Edgar  Allen  Poe 

LAMENT  OF  MRS.  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

'Twas  fair  to  toil ;  and  willing  feet 
And  hands,  that  reached,  and  finger  tips 

Moved  swift  as  stars,  until  defeat 
Laid  hushing  fingers  on  his  lips 

And  crushed  success — 'twas  not  meet 
To  have  defeat  so  oft  repeat! 

I  could  endure  were  it  but  sure 

This  toil  would  once  bring  rest  to  him. 

For  could  he  reach 

The  golden  scenes  that  ever  swim 

Beyond  his  hand,  I  would  not  cry: 

"That  I  could  die— that  we  could  die!" 

The  day  has  night;   the  years  lie  down; 

And  stars  close  eyes  in  cheery  sleep; 
Sometimes  the  sun  lays  down  his  crown; 

The  troubled  seas  toss  not  so  deep 
Sometimes,  and  quell  their  surge  and  sound. 

And  rest  is  found,  yea,  rest  is  found. 

But  our  hopes  bow  in  fruitless  prayer; 

We  reach  and  toil,  we  yearn — we  fail; 
0  I  would  rest !   It  is  not  fair, 

This  sea  we  ride  !    Take  down  the  sail ! 
Let's  sleep,  death  deep;    for  'tis  not  sweet 

To  have  defeat  thus  still  repeat ! 


California  Sunset  45 

WAYSIDE   BLOSSOMS. 

Some  feeble  ivayside  flowers  in  sterile  ground, 

That  bloomed  in  love  to  cast  their  sweetness  round 

To  glad-den  hearts,  who,  shifted  by  the  sweet 
And  tender  blossoms  nodding  at  their  feet, 

Nor  thought  to  thank  the  slender  angel  flowers 
That    cheered    them    thro'    their    weary    journey- 
hours! 


WAYSIDE  BLOSSOMS. 

I. 
CALIFORNIA  SUNSET. 

A  California  sunset,  over  fair ! 

See,  scarlet-colored  margins  fringed  with  green! 
Lo,  fields  of  red  and  crimson-bordered  there ! 

Here     blue     expanses     spanned     with     whitened 

sheen ! 
Lo,  yellow  banners  floating  in  the  air, 

And  purple  pastures  sweet  as  eye  hath  seen! 
Here  pink  with  blossoms  mellow  with  delight! 

0  many-hued  sky-ocean's  painted  bright 
Bent  like  Benin  against  the  shore  of  night! 

Some  lives  have  been  as  that,  with  scarlet  sin 
Fringed  round  with  pleasure-gardens,  green,  alas ! 

With  secret  bowers  of  bloody-red  within! 

And  crimson  hands  have  stained  the  crystal  glass 

Reflecting  God's  truth-blue  skies  that  have  been! 
White    bows    of    promise,    'neath    whose    bended 
way 


46  Dead 

Drag  yellow  jealous  banners ! — purple  lips 

That  sorrow  touched,  and  pink  lips,  pink  a  day 

Of  love,  that  yearns  a  year,  a  moment  sips! 
0  splendid,  painful,  sad,  strange  life,  alas! 


II. 
DEAD. 

His  eyes  were  big  with  tears,  and  weepings  loud 

Were  smothered  by  his  efforts,  while 
A  hand,  as  thoughtless,  as  the  shovels,  shuffles 

The  heavy-thumping  clay  down,  with  a  will, 
Upon  the  heedless  dead.    Ah!  how  it  ruffles 

The  Tahoe  of  his  heart,  so  crystal  still! 
And  how  it  roils  the  clear,  with  every  clod 

That  falls  upon  his  heart  and  dead,  0  God! 

'Tis  sad  to  see  the  last  leaves  fall  and  float 

Off  on  the  chilly  stream  to  some  broad  bay 
To  mingle  with  the  drift  of  many  a  boat 

There  wrecked  and  tossing,  helpless,  night  and 

day, 
Upon  its  top-pitched  swell.     'Tis  sad  to  note 

The  fade  of  twilight;  it  is  sad  to  lay 
The  last  sunbeam  upon  the  couch  of  night 

And  know  that,   ere   it  wakes,  some  soul  takes 
flight. 

'Tis  sad  to  <see  the  last,  brown  deadened  blade 

Of  grass  entombed  beneath  the  first  white  snow; 
'Tis  sad,  tho'  sweet,  to  hear  across  the  glade 

The  mellow  song  of  some  lone  bird,  and  know 
That,  when  its  plaintive,  dying  notes  shall  fade 

To  silence,  'tis  the  last;  'tis  sadder,  tho', 
To  follow  out  the  best  friend  (as  a  wave 

A  body  dead,  afloat)  to  some  lone  grave. 


A  Bell  Toll  47 

III. 
WEDLOCK. 

God  placed  in  man  the  golden  gift  of  love, 

And  which  would  be  attended  with  the  sweetest 
Enjoyment  with  which  all  of  earth  could  move 

A  human  heart — altho'  'tis  called  the  fleetest. 
Of  false  love  this  is  true.    O  land  above ! 

It  surely,  Heaven,  is  not  thou  that  meetest 
Such  love  to  mortals  simply  to  enhance 

The  lassitude  that  followeth  the  dance ! 

0 !  there  is  bliss  indeed  in  being  wed ; 

But  'tis  not  in  the  wedlock  of  the  hand, 
Nor  in  the  law  of  wredlock  weak  as  lead, 

Nor  in  the  wedlock  custom  may  demand. 
The  bliss  of  many  wedded  ones  is  dead, 

Because  they  are  not  wedded  with  the  band 
That  never  galls — the  wed,  whose  touch  and  kiss 

At  fifty  years  of  age  is  young  with  bliss! 


IV. 
A  BELL  TOLL. 

Ah !  do  I  hear  now,  yonder  lifted  bell 

Pour  groans  for  dead  from  out  its  brazen  lips? 
Infernal  sounds !     I  reel  beneath  thy  knell 

Which  strikes  my  heart  down  like  a  sledge,  and 

rips 
A  half-well  wound! — No  sounds  resound  so  fell 

As  bell-knolls,  whose  weird  tolling  never  drips 
Upon  my  mind  like  music,  since  the  time — 

No  matter,  that  was  in  another  clime ! 


48  Fourteen-Lined  Love  Tale 

I  see  a  box  of  varnished  ebony, 

Lined  with  fine  silk  and  velvet,  white  as  purity, 
With  glinting  silver  studs,  and  hinged,  I  see, 

With  gleamy  gold.     How  fair!     Yet  not  security 
Against  the  pain  of  those  bereft,  who  cry 

Around  the  dead,  nor  yet  against  obscurity 
That  waits  the  favored  sleeper;  for  the  sleep 

Some  think  is  better  than  to  live  and  weep. 


V. 
FOURTEEN-LINED    LOVE    TALE. 

Oh !  she  was  loveliness  itself,  fair  Lillie, 

And  purer  than  a  white-lipped  lily-flower, 
And  not  like  many  girls  at  sixteen,  silly. 

Her  great  eyes  beggar  all  descriptive  power; 
And  looked  they  on  her  timid  lover,  till  he 

Seemed  floating  on  their  violet-tide.    No  hour 
Was  long,  when  she  was  with  him;  when  away 

A  minute  seemed  a  lonesome,  ling 'ring  day. 

0   how   their  love   thoughts   blind   them — how    en 
thrall  them! 

I'll  not  say  what  futile  fancy  wove 
Around  them,  or  say  what  a  flashing  column 

Of  crumbling  sweets,  a-gilt  with  fickle  love, 
They  built  by  moonlight, — and  they  never  thought 
That  what  seemed  "Is!"  should  end,  "Alas!    is 
not!" 


By-and-By  49 

VI. 
BY-AND-BY. 

What  histories  are  writ  in  ' '  by-and-by ! " 

The  buxom  country  lass  laughs  out  at  eve: 
"Ha!    Will  will  be  here  by-and-by,  and  I 

My  heart  shall  never  more  know  how  to  grieve! 
I  fling  a  kiss!    I  fling  away  the  sigh!" 

Thus  how  her  happy,  healthy  spirits  heave ! 
But  then — Will  does  not  come,  alas,  and  so 

It  grows  into  a  "by-and-by"  of  woe. 

Our  joys  are  half  made  up  of  "by-and-bys," 

Which  we  expect  here  to  participate. 
How  few  of  which  we  ever  realize! 

We  are  not  now,  but  "by-and-by"  are  great. 
We  are  now  blind,  but  "by-and-by"  have  eyes. 

But  this  is  sure,  that  if  we  only  wait 
And  work  in  godly  patience,  you  and  1 

Will  grasp  the  whole  in  yon  great  "By-and-By." 

0  Nameless,  with  your  holy  violet  eye ! 

0  thousand  promises  of  "by-and-by"! 
0  expectation,  born  to  smile  and  die ! 

0  * '  by-and-by, ' '  thou  unintended  lie  ! 
O  may  we  not  yet  realize  on  High 

The  promises  and  all  the  memory 
Of  what  we  hoped  to  have  beneath  the  sky, 

At  least,  above  it  in  the  "By-and-By"? 


50  A  Tenting  Place 

VII. 
A  TIDE. 

Strange !     As  I  write,  some  half -unwelcome  guest 

Comes  peering  o'er  the  page,  mild  as  a  dove, 
And  yet  it  stirreth  something  in  my  breast 
To  painfulest  convulsions,  which  so  move 
The  deepest  soul,  and  lift  the  lake  of  tears 
Until  it  overfloods  the  bank  of  years: 
0  sweet,  pure,  patient  love,  I  feel  thy  breast 
Throb  thro'  the  years  to  mine,  "unrest!   unrest!" 


VIII. 
PERHAPS. 

Perhaps  we  may  be  glad  in  time ;  how  sad 
Uncertainty  in  that  strange  word,  "perhaps"! 

Perhaps? — The  very  thought  would  drive  one  mad. 
Such  doubt,  while  looking  to  the  future,  wraps 

The  soul  in  shrouds.     Perhaps  we  may — Alas  ! — 
With  Christ,  sail  on  the  crystal  "Sea  of  Glass." 


IX. 
A  TENTING  PLACE. 

An  untamed  bird  sits  on  yon  mountain  pine 
Which,  solitary,  from  its  mount-top  flows 
Above  the  vale,  which  like  an  emerald  line 


A  Trace  of  Eden  51 

Winds   round   the   base.     The    gentle   wind   that 

blows 
Reminds  of  her  soft  breath;  the  stars  that  shine 

Seem  gleaming  as  her  eyes;  and  dim-seen  bows 
Of  promise,  in  the  valley  mists,  seem  bent 

As  those  that  arched  her  eyes : — here  is  my  tent ! 


X. 

A  MAGNET. 

The  melancholy  that  doth  hang  a  hope, 

Small  as  a  star,  in  Heav  'n  is  better  than 
The  mirth  that  hangs  the  real,  large  as  the  scope 

Of  burning  sun,  in  sordid  earth,  for  man; 
For  merriment  is  as  a  magnetized  rope 

To  draw  us  earthward;  melancholy  an 
Untarnished  magnet,  making  our  God-given 

Life-needle    swing    from   Earth    and    tip    toward 
Heaven. 


XL 

A  TRACE  OF  EDEN. 


Of  all  the  good  of  earth,  and  all  the  wise, 
And  all  the  beautiful  beneath  the  skies, 

The  pearliest  trace  of  Eden's  Paradise. 

Still  found  in  Earth,  we  find  in:     "Give   gifts, 
free! 

In  love,  forgive,  as  God  forgiveth  thee!" 


52  This  or  That 

XII. 
THIS  OR  THAT. 

One  poet  sings,  "Life  is  an  empty  dream"; 

Another  contradicts  the  one,  and  says, 
"  Tis  real  and  is  earnest."    "Well,  we  deem 

That  neither  falsifies  in  full — yeas? — nays? — 
For  do  the  things  in  dreaming  only  seem? 

Nay,  they  are  real,  earnest,  till  they  craze 
Some  weary,  wayward  dreamers  here  below — 

These  dreams  so  earnest  with  their  woe. 
Some  lives  dream  on  and  on,  but  dream  no  thing 

Of  deep  importance,  dreamy  platitude ! 
And  talk  their  dreams  aloud.    Some,  faithless,  sing, 

A  dream  of  beauties  destitute  of  good. 
Some    dream,    and,    as    they    dream,    they   sweetly 
swing, 

Sometimes  beyond  this  worldly  amplitude, 
And  bring  back,  from  the  region  of  a  star, 

Some  sacred  thought,  grand,  glorious,  from  afar! 

These  are  the  geniuses,  sublime  of  head — 
Some  dream  forever  out  beyond  the  crowd, 

Then  whisper  back  to  us ;  these  are  the  dead. 
Some  dream  in  silence,  sewing  at  a  shroud ; 

Low  down  by  buried  coffins  they  have  wed. 

A  dream  awake,  a  dream  asleep,   'tis  ours. 

But  be  it  only  THIS:  be  sanctified; 
Be  in  the  will  of  Him  of  prideless  power; 

Glide  up  away  from  him  of  powerless  pride ; 
Be  it  but  thus,  and,  like  a  chastened  tide 

Of  dream-veiled  beauty,  it  shall  break  in  days 
Eternal  thro'  the  dreamless,  holy  ways. 


Paradoxes  53 

XIII. 
PHARISAISM. 

I  do  not  find  the  stiffened  jackets  in 

The  works  of  Christ.    They  are  the  devils'  work, 
Who  wish  to  turn  all  goodness  into  sin 

And  make  the  gloom  of  sin — its  soulless  irk — 
Appear  as  goodness;  hence  befooled  men, 

Beneath  their  stiffened  jackets,  bear  a  dirk 
Sheathed  in  their  dismal  devil-given  creeds, 

Which,   when   they   speak,   stabs   Truth   until   it 
bleeds. 

'Tis  not  because  of  Jesus'  sweet  Christianity; 

But  'tis  because  men  will  pervert  the  truth. 
And  twist  high  Heaven's  sane  into  insanity, 

And  cramp  our  Saviour's  mercy  into  ruth, 
And  would  press  all  the  human  from  humanity, 

And  sprinkle  whiteness  on  the  heads  of  youth. 
O  Jesus!   Will  it  ever,  ever  be 

That  men  can  see  the  mercy  thou  canst  see? 


XIV. 
PARADOXES. 

0  what  a  world  of  paradoxes  this! 

The  very  motives  that  would  prompt  a  man 
To  shower  on  others  well-meant  gifts  of  bliss 

Spread  ruin  on  the  very  road  o'er  run; 
A  cruel  blow  seems  kinder  than  a  kiss. 

Start  to  perform  the  very  best  you  can, 
Your  kindness  seems  at  last  to  simply  end 

In  tragedy.     Be  kind,  and  you  offend. 
And  every  pleasant  thing  that  God  has  given 

Seems  but  a  snare  to  tangle  us  in  woe; 


54  Be  Merciful 

And  every  woe  by  which  a  man  is  driven 
Drives  him  where  only  fruits  of  blisses  grow ; 

And  he  that  tastes  of  happiness  below 

May  break  his  fiddle  for  the  time  to  come — 

Make   your   oration   here,   but  there   you   must   be 
dumb. 


XV. 
A  ROVER. 

He  feigned  full  many  a  smile  and  many  a  laugh 

And  far-fetched  merriment  and  soulless  glance, 
And  strove  to  scatter  with  his  friends  the  chaff 

Of  levity,  and  laugh  to  see  it  dance 
In  thoughtless  joying,  and  he  strove  to  quaff 

The  glass  of  glee,  but  therein  lurks  a  trance, 
A  curse,  that  turns  the  liquid  into  foam; 

He  drank  its  nothingness  to  the  health  of  home. 


XVI. 
BE  MERCIFUL. 

She  standeth  quailing  at  the  midnight  shimmer 
That  floats  far  down  upon  the  mourning  river. 
See  what  a  passionate,  convulsive  tremor 

Creeps  o  'er  her  faded  frame !  A  death  cold  shiver ! 
Wild  eyes  from  face  as  pale  as  pale  moon's  glim 
mer, 
Look  back !    be  quick !    she  leaps !     .     .     is  still 

forever ! 
Who    blames  ?  —  who    knows  ?  —  0    woe-bewildered 

daughter, 
Thy  secret,  save  God  and  the  tongueless  water? 


A  Heroine  55 

Twere  well  to  think  more  deeply  ere  we  talk. 

'Twere  well  to  scan  the  heights  of  mercy  first; 
For  could  we  see  o'erhead  the  swooping  hawk, 

Why  would  we  blame  the  timid  quail  that  durst 
Dart  swiftly  and  so  headlong  'gainst  a  rock, 

And  thus  meet  death  rather  than  face  the  worst? 
Ah !    thus  familiar  death  appears  less  dread 

To  some  sad  ones  than  swooping  woe  o'erhead! 


XVII. 

A  HEROINE. 

I  knew  a  life,  the  sweetest  sacrifice, 

But  one,  earth  ever  knew.     O  she  was  great, 
•Great  by  the  standard  of  most  human  eyes, 
And  greater  in  the  eyes  round  Heaven's  gate. 

Ideal  beauty  blushed,  fell  on  its  knees 
And  stammered,  as  it  tried  to  emulate 

Her  beauty,  for  it  did  surpass  th'  ideal — 
Her  meek,  unbounded  beauty,  yet  was  real ! 

And  she  was  born  a  child  of  rarest  song, 

And  thoughts  of  mild,  yet  big  magnificence — 
A  poetess  even  when  she  lay  along 

The  blooming  stream  of  childhood,  and  the  sense 
Was  riveted  to  hear  her  chastened  tongue 

Pour  forth  her  written  sonnet-eloquence, 
In  her  most  song-engifted  utterance — 

The  very  blossoms  listened  in  a  trance ! 

•• 

So  even  her  beauty,  most  divinely  gifted, 
Stood  pouting,  envious  of  her  gift  of  mind. 

But,  oh !    her  boundless  soul  seemed  ever  lifted 
Beyond  the  reach  of  selfishness — too  kind 

To  have  seen  a  fly  adrift,  and  not  have  drifted 
In  sympathy,  most  superfine-refined, 


56  A  Comet  Thought 

Down  with  the  drowning  mote,  to  reach  and  weep 
Till  she  could  lift  the  small  waif  from  the  deep! 

Yet  she  was  sacrificed  for  golden-shine — 
Who  gave  for  gilt,  a  life  so  near  divine? 

A  father!    father!   will  she  be  debased? 

She  dies  instead!   and  her  sweet  memory,  traced 

On  maiden  hearts,  has  kept  howr  many  chaste? 


XVIII. 
A  COMET-THOUGHT. 

Last  night  mine  eyes  walked  o'er  the  far  embroi 
dered 

Blue  heavens,  and  they  strolled  along  its  seas 
Of  silvered  clouds,  and  toward  the  wild,  unordered 

Swift  comet-rivers  leaned  against  those  trees, 
Whose  buds  are  waving  stars,  whose  tops  do  blos 
som 

With  suns  and  moons,  which  toss,  oh,  far  across 
them! 

I  thought  I  saw  trailed  upward  thro'  the  crimson 

Of  sunset  clouds  the  shadow  of  that  thought. 
My  soul  leaps  westward — leaps  and  swiftly  swims 

on 
The  crimson  flood!     I  reach  my  arms,  and  it — is 

not! 

My  soul  falls  backward,  sick  from  its  exertion, 
And  feeling  all  desire  amid  its  deep  desertion. 

This  frets  the  flesh  away,  this  trackless  yearning — 

This  pleading,  everlasting  call! 
Oh,  this  eternal  reaching,  and  returning 

Heart-empty  to  this  tame  and  barren  ball! 
Ah!   even  Cleopatra's  love  were  breastless, 

When  this  aspiring  adds  unrest  to  restless! 


Vivian  37 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 
VIVIAN. 

What  iridescent  beauties  twine 

And  round  Thee  weave  their  radiant  glory, 

My  Vivian  with  the  soul  benign — 

With  heart  that  glows  the  old  loved  story, 

And  mind  and  spirit  thoughts  that  shine 

With  worth  more  rare  than  stars  divine. 

How  difficult  to  sing  thy  grace 

Of  mind  and  heart  and  smile  and  way — 

Of  magnet  touch  and  beauty-trace 

In  lines  of  form  and  every  ray 

Of  luscious  tints  on  lip  and  face ! 

Thy  ways  thy  winsomeness  enhance, 
Enlacing  as  with  angel  laces 
That  flow  from  every  kindly  glance; 
While  God,  the  Super-Angelo, 
Thy  cheeks  of  light  and  brow  aglow. 
And  wondrous  eyes,  and  laughing  mouth, 
All  tropic  as  the  witching  south, 
O'erfloods  with  springs  of  love  and  thought- 
Such  thoughts  and  loves  as  He  alone, 
Great  Artist,  ever  yet  has  thrown 
On  such  few  perfect  luminous  faces ! 

One  love,  as  manna  in  the  dew, 
Yet  strong  as  surges  of  the  ocean, 
My  heart  entwineth  thro'  and  thro', 
My  soul  suffusing  with  devotion — 
A  worship  at  the  shrine  for  you, 
My  Vivian  with  the  spirit  voice, 
With  heart  and  smiling  eyes  of  few. 


58  Vivian 

With  face  of  strength  and  fine  decision, 

I  see  thee  standing  glorified, 

And  glowing  in  a  rhythmic  vision ; 

And,  like  a  seraph  sanctified 

In  gentleness,  I  see  Thee  glide 

As  Psyche  o'er  the  fields  Elysian. 

You  hold  the  lustre  of  my  loves 
As  rugged  as  the  mounts  of  mist, 
Yet  delicate  as  turtle-doves, 
And  pure  as  skies  of  amethyst, 
And  fecund  as  Brazilian  groves ! 

What  gracious,  lambent  eyes  are  thine ! 
They  flame,  yet  their  illuming  sparks 
Pain  not  as  fires,  but  warm,  refine; 
And  on  thy  heart's  entrancing  tide 
They  float,  two  double  gleesome  arcs 
That  lure  me  from  the  world  aside 
And  with  me  joy  ward  always  glide. 

Thou  dear  delightsome  Heart  of  hearts, 

Thou  ever  loyal  Queen  of  Beauty! 

Not  thine  the  beauty  of  the  arts, 

But  re-incarnate  love  and  duty; 

Not  thine  the  large,  voluptuous  splendor 

Of  Amazonian  queen,  but  slender, 

Graceful,  beauteous,  lithesome,  tender! 

Thy  brilliance,  like  the  playful  birds; 
Thy  smiling  cheerfulness  of  face, 
Life-brightening  in  looks  and  words. 
Like  happy  butterflies  that  chase 
Amid  the  seas  of  sunny  flowers, 
Thy  pretty  ways  of  heart  and  mind 
Do  spray  about  Thee  dazzling  showers 
Of  feelings,  thoughts  and  luring  powers, 
Pearls,  rubies,  diamond,  chrysoprase 


Vivian  59 

Jade,  emerald,  opal — every  kind 
Of  life  florescent,  crystalline — 
That  fill  us  with  a  sweet  amaze ; 
See  this  is  Thine,  to  glint  and  shine ! 

When  these  refining  thoughts  enwreath 

Thy  coronal  around  thy  mind, 

And  o'er  thy  heart  their  fragrance  breathe, 

And  lift  the  curtain,  swing  the  blind, 

How,  dancing  from  thy  window-eyes, 

Come,  laughing  like  sweet  stars  and  skies, 

Such  silvery,  golden  flocks  of  chime, 

That  tell  to  sight  amid  the  sound, 

Their  visions  bountiful,  sublime, 

And  delicately  dear  abound, 

In  joys — and  yet     .     .     sometimes  in  sighs! 

Thy  mind  is  like  the  shining  sun. 
Or  scintillations  of  a  star, 
Thy  thrilling  thoughts  so  sparkling  are, 
And  steady  in  their  royal  run; 
Sometimes  pathetic  thoughts  are  spun 
Like  moonlight  rays  that  gently  sift, 
So  bright  and  luminous  they  lift 
To  love  above  dark  clouds  adrift. 

Thy  loving  spirit,  oh,  how  true ! 
Celestial,  winning  one  to  Thee, 
For  spirit  help — more  high  and  free 
My  sweep  of  spirit-thought  anew 
Drops  kindly  through  my  soul  like  dew 
Alight  from  Paradisal  skies ! 
And  love,  so  strong  and  good  and  wise, 
Binds  me  in  willing  sacred  ties ! 

How  priceless  is  thy  smile  which  first 
Came  to  my  dove-deserted  ark 
Of  heart  an-hungered,  athirst — 


60  Vivian 

Came  like  a  dove  into  my  dark, 
Sweet  messenger  with  leaves  of  light 
That  scattereth  my  dismal  night. 

Thou  Princess,  in  the  realm  of  Love, 

I  saw  and  loved,  and  sought — and  won; 

I  felt  thy  heart,  afar,  alone, 

Beat  confidence  to  mine,  my  dove, 

In  kindness  mourning  from  the  Grove 

Of  fallen  leaves  and  wintry  cold — 

So  mine  throbbed  back  a 'thro'  the  wold 

Of  sorrows  round  untold,  yet     .     .     told! 

But  something  with  entrancing  wing, 
By  somewhat  ever  unexplained, 
I  love  because  I  am  constrained; 
And  thus  to  Thee  my  heart  must  sing. 
Upon  my  heart  the  signet  ring 
Has  set  thy  seal,  thy  regal  seal; 
I  feel  its  warming  stamp  of  weal, 
And  lips  to  lips  our  love  reveal ! 

Stand  by  my  side,  my  wished-for  bride, 
Turn  face  to  face,  my  lily  Call, 
And  fashioned  finest,  best  of  all. 
Through  all  the  changes  that  betide 
I  fold  thee  to  my  heart  with  pride; 
And  eye  to  eye  we  see  the  deep 
That  lieth  through  those  eyes,  where  leap 
Love's  rising  springs  that  laugh  or — weep. 

Thine  eyes,  how  like  a  seraph's  own! 
Look  fondly  into  mine;  no  art 
Or  song  can  reproduce  their  heart — 
Rare  tints  of  ardor  richly  strown, 
But  loves  like  crystalline  a -light 
And  tintings  so  magnetic  bright 
Are  unportrayable  delight ! 


Vivian  61 

So  bright  and  fairy-like  thy  ways, 
So  free  and  cheery-like  thy  words, 
That  make  all  days  as  holidays, 
All  places  bowers  of  flowers  and  birds, 
And  bees  and  beaming  butterflies! 
And  yet  so  deep,  so  good,  so  wise, 
As  deep  as  seers,  hence  sometimes  sad ; 
As  good  as  lilies  white,  hence  glad; 
As  wise  as  wisdom,  hence  so  true ; 
So  wise,  so  good,  so  earnest,  You! 
Do  I  need  gentleness  to  touch 
The  dusky  hours  with  smiles  of  day, 
Thou  comest  to  my  heart  with  such 
A  glow  of  light  and  love  alway! 

Do  I  need  strength  to  fend  the  blows 
That  batter  at  my  heart  and  tear 
The  bastioned  soul  until  it  flows 
With  spirit-blood — the  strength  to  dare, 
Thou  comest  thro'  these  clashing  throes; 
Thy  gentle  soul  to  greatness  grows, 
And  wins  a  palm  for  me,  and  sows 
Rare  seeds  of  blooms  for  wreeds  of  woes! 

Do  I  need  Patience  in  my  Hope, 
While  others  hesitate  and  grope, 
Thou,  Vivian,  comest  running  fleet 
Like  steady  glinting  seraph  feet; 
And  kissing  soul  to  soul,  thy  meet 
And  perfect  patience,  mild  and  sweet, 
Diffuseth  thro'  my  soul  replete. 

Do  I  need  adamantine  Trust 
To  hold  this  burden  that  has  grown 
From  blinded  deeds  of  those  who  must 
From  what  they  are,  have  left  unknown 
My  censered  shrine,  encurtained,  lone — 


62  Vivian 

My  kindlier,  nobler  self,  hence  thrust 
Unwittingly  their  hands  of  stone, 
With  unintended  ruth  and  dust 
Down  thro'  my  soul,  my  real  own; 
And,  as  a  sword  all  rough  with  rust 
And  broken-edged,  unthought  by  them, 
My  paradisal  Trust  dethrone, 
And  crush  and  mar  my  diadem! 

Do  I  need  Trust  once  more  enthroned, 

Thou,  Vivian,  comest  like  the  sun, 

And  shinest  through  the  lone  bemoaned, 

And,  in  thy  wisdom  golden  spun, 

Thou  lookest  thro'  the  misty  dun, 

And  seest  all  my  truer  self — 

My  more  prophetic  finer  self — 

And  call'st  it  precious — more  than  pelf! 

Hence  Thou  hast  come  and  re-enthroned 

My  prostrate  Trust!     Thou  sittest  Queen, 

Since  Thou  hast  known,  since  Thou  hast  seen! 

Do  I  need  Love  to  warm  the  chill 
That  hung  so  long  like  Arctic  frost 
Athro'  the  long  extended  frill 
And  full  of  Arctic  night,  embossed 
In  lonesome  waste  and  snowy  hill — 
Do  I  need  Love  to  warm  this  chill 
That  hung  so  long  and  blew  so  shrill 
Around  my  soul,  so  like  a  ghost 
ForeTer  sheathed  in  wraps  of  woe 
And  canopied  in  skies  of  snow 
In  mounts  Antarctic  wandering  lost! 

I  called  long  through  this  frigid  night 

Heard  but  the  echo  of  my  voice ! 
I  cried  out  thro'  this  endless  blight — 
Because  my  cries  seemed  better  choice 
Than  this  cold  silence  and  affright — 
Than  this  benighted  gray-hued  white ! 


Vivian  63 

And  then — as  sudden  as  the  flash 

Of  brilliance  from  the  gate  of  Heaven 

Thou,  Vivian,  stood 'st  in  the  even 

Outside  the  glistening  gate  of  Aidenn; 

Before  thy  look  the  ice  was  riven 

And  all  that  blighted  sky  of  ash 

Suffused  with  budding  blooming  life, 

As  Thou,  bright  Beauty,  mild  as  doves, 

Beatified,  my  love-clad  maiden, 

Cam'st  looking,  leaning,  reaching,  folding  me. 

Translating  me  to  ardent  groves, 

Winding  thine  arms  around  me,  holding  me 

Jeweled  with  thy  jo3Tous  smiles 

In  love-embowered  summer  isles ! 

What  matchless  speaking  eyes  are  thine ! 

I  know,  have  known,  no  other  eyes, 

Of  all  the  beautiful  that  shine, 

So  superfine  in  sympathies: 

Their  look  a  voiceless  voice  from  Thee 

That  casts  such  lustrous  looks  to  mine — 

Sends  resurrection  love  to  me ! 

I  prize  thy  perfect  form,  petite, 

Such  lithesome  grace  in  every  line. 

Not  training's  art  made  Thee  elite; 

The  Grace,  Elite,  was  always  thine ; 

For,  Vivian,  Thou  wast  born  th'  elitest, 

Endued  with  all  the  Graces  sweetest, 

The  daintiest,  winningest,  best  and  neatest — 

How  could  I  other  than  admire ! 

How  could  I  other  than  aspire 

To  Thee,  the  acme  of  desire ! 

None  else  so  lovably  elite, 

None  else  so  lovably  complete — 

All  forms  and  colors,  thoughts  and  loves, 

And  luring  ways  of  artless  art, 


64  Vivian 

Spontaneous  as  the  artless  doves, 
And  glorified  in  every  part 
By  artless  wisdom  of  the  heart — 
In  all  so  charmingly  replete ! 

How  long  the  hours,  how  dull  the  day, 
Dear  Vivian,  with  loyal  heart, 
When  thou  art  absent  from  the  way ! 
Thou  seem'st  from  me  as  far  apart 
As  sparkling  stars  are  from  the  earth, 
It  tints  with  pathos  all  my  mirth. 

I  reach  my  arms  out  o'er  my  pillow, 
In  dreams  that  Thou  art  by  my  side; 
And  then,  beneath  its  drooping  willow, 
My  soul  bends  down,  to  grief  allied, 
When  I  awake  and  find,  alas! 
'Twas  but  a  dream  of  Thee  to  pass 
As  shadows  o'er  the  dancing  grass! 

How  full  thy  heart,  how  nobly  tall 
Thy  matchless  spirit,  masterful! 
And  yet,  my  Queen,  Thou  art  petite — 
So  fine  of  limb  and  grace  withal, 
And  transcendentally  elite, 
With  ankle  as  a  tripping  girl's 
That  draws  one's  vision  with  control 
As  tho '  entwined  with  strings  of  pearls ! 

I  love  Thee  as  the  stars  the  night; 
I  love  Thee  as  the  sun  the  noon. 
If  Thou  art  here  'tis  beauteous  light 
Commingled  sun  and  stars  and  moon! 
Away  from  Thee,  the  shadows  fall 
And  cast  their  pity  over  all. 

Thou  heart  of  peace,  Thou  crown  of  Loves 
Invincible !     I  feel  thine  arms, 


Vivian  65 

Like  blooming  vines  amid  the  groves 
That  decorate  with  clinging  charms 
The  rugged  trees,  enfolding  me, 
That  I  may  give  my  life  to  Thee ! 

Thy  love  to  me  a  regal  guest, 

The  royal  blood  of  one  great  soul — 

If  wed  to  mine,  that  were  the  best! 

'Tis  richer  than  a  golden  bowl 

Concealing  in  its  carven  breast 

The  Orient's  ruby  pigeon-blood 

Or  silver  mount  with  diamond  hood ! 

To  know  me  as  I  am,  and  still 
To  love  me  as  thy  mated  soul, 
This  were  a  laughing  sapphire  rill ! 
Enchanting  girl,  am  I  thy  goal 
To  what  shall  be  from  what  has  been? 
Shall  rills  of  joy  in  purling  sheen 
Glide  on  before?    Or  shall  there  roll 
Rude  tides  to  toss  thee  from  my  grasp, 
And  pluck  thy  soul  from  out  my  clasp 
While  tossing  seas  shake  foam  between? 

My  scintillating  morning  star, 

Oh,  hold  to  me !     I  cling  to  Thee ! 

As  to  the  ship  the  dipping  spar, 

Then  Love  shall  live  with  Thee  and  glee. 

And  Love  and  glee  abide  with  me ! 

Oh,  Thou  art  more  than  "much  to  me"; 
Thou'rt  me — just  all — thus  mine     .     yet  free! 
Do  I  have  joy?     It  is  from  Thee! 
Heart-pain  have  I  to  cloud  the  glee? 
It  is  o'er  Thee,  from  Thee,  for  Thee! 

I  touch  my  fingers  to  thy  hair, 

And  smooth  its  brown-hued  richness  down, 


66  Vivian 

And  kiss  that  precious  brow  so  rare 
Infolded   'neath  its  silken  brown — 
Caress  thy  cheeks  with  royal  care — 
Press  face  to  face,  the  Strong,  the  Fair! 

Thou,  Vivian,  art  all  Beauty's  own, 
From  tasteful  loops  of  rare  brown  hair 
To  feet  fit  for  footstool  of  throne ! 
Thy  chosen  loops  of  locks  so  rare, 
Thy  forehead  fit  to  hold  a  crown, 
Thine  eyes  than  Helen's  eyes  more  sweet, 
Thy  face  in  every  line  replete 
With  rich  endowments  yet  discreet, 
Thy  form  Adonis  might  embrace, 
Enamored  of  its  faultless  grace ! 

I  prize  thy  spirit  musings,  still; 

Admire  thy  mind's  infolding  gifts; 

Desire  thy  heart's  impassioned  will, 

That  warms  my  life,  my  love  uplifts ; 

I  prize  thy  bosom's  noble  thrill, 

Thy  clasping  arms  that  shield  from  ill ; 

I  trust  thy  sacred  guiding  hand; 

I  prize  the  passion  of  thy  kiss; 

I  love  Thyself,  Thou  Eden  Land ! 

I  could  not,  Vivian,  love  amiss 

In  loving  Thee;  Thou  charming  wand 

Thou  drewest  me  to  treasures  grand. 

And  not  the  great  white  mounts  of  snow, 
Or  woods  profound  of  Amazon, 
Where  ills  and  darkness  ever  go, 
Or  plains  of  Lena  Winter-blown, 
Or  ocean 's  storm  grand  ebb  and  flow ; 
Not  these  thy  symboled  greatness  show. 

Thy  greatness  is  the  mast 'ring  soul, 
And  queenly  reticence  of  mind, 


Vivian  67 

And  clear  affections  large  control 
Thy  love-lured  vines  of  bloom  that  wind 
Their  tropic  tendrils  and  unroll 
Each  flaming  blossom  from  its  boll! 

Behold  thy  heart,  thy  mind,  thy  soul! 

If  I  could  these  three  once  portray 

I  might  be  written  on  the  roll 

With  those  whose  songs'  effulgent  day 

Shall  never  dim!  alas!  but  I 

Can  only  strive  and  ever  fail 

To  reach  a  place  so  bright  and  high; 

Hence,  hiding  from  the  loveless  throng, 

Can  only  breathe  these  words  so  frail, 

And  cast  to  Thee  this  broken  song, 

So  little  of  the  thought  is  done 

To  what  Thou  art,  Thou  One  Alone ! 

My  heart  would  tell  thee  how  I  love  thee ; 
But,  oh !  the  meagreness  of  words, 
In  winsomeness  so  far  above  me, 
Thou  laurel-crowned !    The  angels  gird 
Thee  round  with  beauties  rare  to  prove  me; 
I  cannot  write  these  charms;  but  feel 
The  mellowed  movements  of  thy  hair, 
The  open  radiance  of  thine  eye! 
Like  star:kissed  flakes  of  foam  a-keel, 
Thy  smile  ensprays  my  way!    What  fair 
Fine  alabaster  skin !    What  rare 
And  wdnsome  form !     .     .     But,  Vivian,  I 
Can  never  write  in  words  and  rhyme 
Thy  Beauty  sweeter  than  sweet  Thyme ! 

I  draw  Thee  to  me  and  enshrine 
Myself  within  thy  bower  of  charms, 
And  thus  by  words  and  looks  and  actions 
I  tell,  while  nestled  in  thine  arms, 
Thy  soul-entrancing  sweet  attractions. 


68  Vivian 

But  still  how  little  I  can  tell 
Compared  with  all  that  I  divine ! 

And  yet,  my  Beauty,  this  is  well; 
For,  tho'  I  through  the  coming  years, 
Keep  telling  thee  how  much  thou  art — 
How  beautiful,  how  good,  how  shine 
Thy  loveliness  and  grace,  dear  heart! 
Keep  telling  Thee  in  looks  and  words, 
And  actions  clad  with  joys  or  tears, 
I  have  not  told  thee  all,  and  still 
I  cannot  tell  Thee  all !     Like  birds, 
Bright-plumed  in  Paradise  that  swell 
The  rhapsody  of  welling  song, 
The  story  grows,  the  music  will 
Forever  grow,  a  chanting  throng, 
Keep  telling  thee — and  telling  thee, 
My  peerless  girl,  mine  yet  to  be ! 
My  priceless  pearl !     My  unexcelled, 
My  soul's  desire,  at  last  fulfilled! 

Now,  grasp  my  hand,  thou  sprite  of  May! 
The  clinging  of  thy  hand  is  strength; 
Make  me  all  thine,  and  thus,  at  length, 
After  so  long  a  desert  way, 
Bring  me  into  thy  bower  of  day, 
And  all  delights :     Make  thee  all  mine ! 
Let  heart  with  heart  now  intertwine, 
And  all  the  darkness  turns  to  shine! 


Annette 


ANNETTE. 

The  day  was  when  I  courted  all — 
I  courted  suns  and  moons  and  stars, 
And  balmy  airs  brimful  of  sounds 
Of  winged  singers'  melodies; 
I  loved  the  clouds  that  hung  on  high 
That  fringed  the  blue  and  balmy  sky; 
I  loved  the  fire-wheeled  thunder  cars ; 
I  courted  all  the  blooming  grounds, 
And  courted  with  abundant  eye ; 
And  all  I  saw  enraptured  me, 
Because,  Annette,  I  courted  thee. 

When  I  went  wild  with  ecstasy 

At  joyous  songs  of  mated  birds 

It  was  because,  Annette,  therein 

Was  joy — because  the  sound  was  sweet ; 

Not  sweet  because  'twas  sweet, — ah,  me ! 

'Twas  sweet  because  it  breathed  of  thee. 

The  glad  bird  voices  were  not  words, 

Nor  tuned  to  my  violin, 

As  thine  was  tuned;  yet  they,  Annette, 

Were  musical  and  chimed  with  glee, 

As  thine,  wrhen  I  was  wooing  thee. 

I  never  dreamt,  my  dear  Annette, 

That  ever  any  arm  but  mine 

Could  clasp  thee  close;  I  never  thought 

The  universe  another  bore 

Could  woo  my  loved  Annette,  and  yet, 

Once,  ere  the  morning  star  was  set, 

When  I  had  breathed  the  final  line 

Whose  dying  notes  were  scarce  forgot — 

Ere  I  had  more  than  closed  the  door, 

Another  came ;    I  saw — I  see  ! 

That  Death,  Annette,  was  wooing  thee. 


7U  Agnes 

Tell  me,  Annette,  was  there  one  night 
I  did  not  watch  by  thee  and  pray 
So  death,  Annette,  could  find  no  time 
To  woo  my  loved  one ;    without  rest 
I  guarded  thee.    He  veiled  my  sight; 

0  starless  gloom  !     0  dead  delight ! 
He  won  my  pale  Annette  away ; 

He  wedded  thee !    How  weird  the  chime 
Of  wedding  bells;  how  white  thy  breast, 
When  thou  gav'st  back  my  ring  to  me 
And  Death,  Annette,  was  wed  to  thee ! 

When  back  I  gaze  to-day,  Annette, 

1  wonder  how  the  world  could  blame 
Our  youthful  love — so  pure,  refined. 
So  little  doubt,  so  much  of  trust; 
God  knows,  I  never  since  have  met, 
Another  love  as  saintly  yet. 

I'm  not  of  those  who  love  to  name 
Dead  mem'ries  o'er,  nor  yet  the  kind 
To  pine  for  what  has  gone  to  dust; 
And  yet  my  heart  is  not  so  free, 
Annette,  as  when  I  courted  thee. 


AGNES. 

Agnes,  the  clouds  above  me 
Are  melted  into  mellow  light 
Beneath  this  magic  sun,  "I  love  thee!' 
Love  thee  as  the  soul  loves  right — 
Love  thee  as  the  skies  of  night 
Love  the  sweet  stars  above  thee. 

Agnes,  all  seems  to  move  me, 
Where  all  ways  lead  me,  unto  thee. 


Agnes  71 

By  all  my  smiles,  my  tears,  I  love  thee ; 
By  every  bending  of  the  knee, 
By  every  surge  of  spirit's  sea, 
By  all  unspeakably  I  love  thee ! 

Agnes,  my  Agnes,  prove  me ; 

But  stay  not,  Agnes,  thus  so  far 

Barred  from  me,  while  I  love  thee 

As  the  lake-tide  loves  its  star, 

Fondling  on  its  bosom  bare 

Its  image  only,  while  above 

And  distant  shines  the  queenly  love. 

Agnes,  come  nearer,  nearer! 
And  let  the  image  be  supplanted 
By  thyself  so  dearer,  dearer 
That  my  paths  may  be  enchanted ! 
Agnes,  how  my  soul  hath  panted — 
Panteth  always  to  be  nearer! 

Agnes,  my  Agnes,  prove  me ! 
For  all  strings  of  my  spirit  beat 
In  harmony  of  tone,  "I  love  thee!" 
Evermore  I  could  repeat, 
Linked  with  thy  life  so  sweet, 
Agnes,  my  crown,  "I  love  thee!" 

Agnes,  art  thou  above  me? 

The  magnet  of  thy  perfect  mind 

Can  lift  me,  if  thou  love  me; 

And  doubt  thou  lovest  were  unkind ! 

Just  love  me,  and  I  am  refined ! 

Agnes,  my  Agnes,  love  me ! 


72  The  Good  Star  of  Hope 

THE  GOOD  STAR  OF  HOPE. 

In  the  splendors  of  September's 
Brilliant  purple,  silver,  yellow — 
All  the  hues  of  glowing  embers, 
Mingled  tints  intense,  but  mellow, 
Our  star  shone  upon  the  way, 
Two  lives  opened  to  the  day. 

My  star  hovering  o'er  the  night, 

Thy  star  flaming  from  God's  hands! 

One  star  beautiful  and  bright, 

Two  lives,  but  in  parted  lands. 

Two  lives  playing  in  the  light, 

Each  unknowing  thro'  the  flight 

Of  wayward  years,  their  hearts  were  plight. 

One  star  shining  thro'  the  strife 
Of  strange  experiences  of  each — 
Two  lives  yearning  for  a  life 
Seeming  always  out  of  reach ; 
Always  running,  reaching,  yearning, 
Ever  empty-hand  returning! 

Thus  the  flushing  years  went  by! 
Always  something  only  guessed; 
Always  something  seemed  to  fly 
Rhythmic  beauty  unpossessed! 
Neither  knowing!  always  after 
Something  holding  joy  and  laughter. 
Yearning  for  the  only  guessed, 
Pleading  for  the  unpossessed! 

Two  lives  born  beneath  one  star, 
Wedded  from  their  very  birth, 
Tho'  they  dwell  in  lands  afar, 
The  very  antipodes  of  earth, 
Still,  that  sweetest  glow  of  night 


The  Good  Star  of  Hope  73 

Drew  them  with  its  magnet  light 
Till  their  roving  spirits  meet — 
Each  the  other  makes  complete. 

Thus  the  flushing  years  went  by — 

Always  something  seemed  to  fly — 

Then  I  feel  you  coming  nigh ! 

So  our  light  hath  twined  his  rays; 

Ribbons,  scintillant  and  kind, 

Round  our  wills  and  lives  and  ways, 

Fondly  holding  us  entwined — 

One  life,  one  love  inwrought  from  two — 

You  in  me  and  I  in  you! 

Weary  grew  my  bruised  feet, 
Hopeless  grew  my  bleeding  heart, 
Till  the  strain  we  always  greet 
"Written:     "Love,  how  far  thou  art!" 
Long  the  path  that  led  to  Thee, 
Princess,  yet  to  Thee  it  led; 
Far  the  way  that  led  to  me, 
Soul-mate,  yet  to  me  it  sped ! 

Stand  with  me  while  decades  roll 

'Neath  that  efflorescent  star, 
One  in  mind  and  heart  and  goal ! 
One  in  Love  and  Life  we  are, 
Knit  by  tendrils  of  devotion! 
Thought  and  passion,  like  an  ocean, 
Flowing,  mingling  into  one: 
Thus  our  star  its  work  has  done ! 
May  our  rays  together  run, 
Ever  brighter,  always  one ! 


74  My  Golden  Nugget — My  Valentine 


MY  GOLDEN  NUGGET— MY  VALENTINE! 

The  Golden  Sun  shines  o'er  the  mountain, 

The  golden  mount  of  unmined  hearts; 
The  silvery  glitter  of  the  fountain 

Of  youth  and  beauty  joy  imparts ! 
And  I  go  searching  for  the  one 

Rich  hidden  heart — to  search  till  won — 
Yea,  richer  than  the  golden  sun! — 

Thro'  pains  of  nights  and  thirsts  of  noons, 

Thro'  longings  under  desert  moons, 

Thro'  labors  of  the  aching  soul 
And  bleedings  of  the  spirit  feet 

To  reach  the  miner's  joyous  goal, 
To  grasp  at  last  the  treasure  sweet! 

Till  suddenly,   'mid  crowning  beauties, 
That  dream  of  follies  or  of  duties, 

I  see,  I  stop,  I  turn,  I  greet, 
AVith  lifted  pick,  the  glowing  treasure, 

A  piece  of  gold  of  champion  measure; 
All  pain  and  labor  turned  to  pleasure, 

Crowding  aside  the  plainer  kind, 
I  rushed  upon  my  brilliant  find — 

And  out  of  the  mount  of  hearts  I  dug  it — 
My  precious,  peerless,  priceless  Nugget ! 

No  heart  so  large,  so  good,  so  great, 

No  nugget,  Love,  with  half  the  splendor, 
Or  royal,  rich,  entrancing  wreight — 

So  strong  and  warm ;  and  yet  how  tender 
The  heart  of  Thee,  my  red-laced  Fate — 

My  good  fate,  yea,  my  fond  Defender, 
My  grander  than  Jerusalem's  »Gate ! 

With  what  swift  greed  I  worked  and  dug  it 
Out  of  the  mines  of  hearts,  my  Nugget ! 

My  Vivian,  my  golden  Fleece, 

What  rest  of  heart  has  come  with  Thee ! 


My  Golden  Nugget — My  Valentine  .          75 

What  warming  Love,  what  glee,  what  peace, 

What  wealth  of  body,  heart  and  mind ! 
This  nugget,  with  its  diamond  eyes, 

Its  smooth  white  breasts,  great  shining  pearls 
And  crowned  with  pinkest  pearls  enshrined — 

Unique,  unequaled — all  the  girls' 
That  ever  smiled  beneath  the  skies 

Cannot  compare  with  thine  that  haven 
Above  thy  sweetest  heart  they  cover! 

Oh.  how  I  prize  their  pretty  sweetness, 
How  love  to  fold  their  matchless  neatness! 

Thus  diamond  eyes  their  fires  uncover, 
And  pearl  of  pick  and  whiteness  lies 

Upon  thy  golden  form,  my  Lover — 
Xo  wonder,  then,  with  greed  I  dug  it 
Out  of  the  mount  of  hearts,  my  Nugget! 

Thou  perfect  prize,  thou  reddest  gold, 

So  highly  covered  and  so  burning 
With  suns  of  love  and  life  that  mould 

Themselves  to  every  jeweled  turning — 
To  every  dainty  form  and  earning 

The  richest  love,  the  best  devotion 
That  man  could  give  to  trusting  woman. 

The  purest,  loftiest  emotion. 
The  manliest,  most  superhuman; 

And  yet.  with  all  this  glow  intense, 
Endazzling  e'en  the  super-sense, 

Thou'rt  clothed  with  skin  of  Alabaster, 
My  golden  girl,  my  golden  Fleece! 

My  Princess  of  the  goal  of  Peace, 
Strong  bar  of  gold,  rich  recompense — 

Thou  bar  of  gold,  yet,  as  the  aster, 
So  smiling,  nodding,  gentle,  tender, 

I  bow  before  Thee,  Sweet  Defender. 
I  worship  at  thy  throne,  my  Nugget ! 

Out  of  the  Mount  of  Hearts  I  dug  it ! 


76  Alone 


ALONE. 

Out  in  the  green  of  the  wood, 
Sprinkled  with  many-hued  bloom, 
Playing  with  winds  that  are  rude — 
Yet,  'mid  the  glow  it  is  gloom, 
And  my  heart  is  as  lead  or  a  stone, 
For  absent  from  Thee  is  ''Alone!'' 

"Alone!" — what  a  dirge  in  the  word! 

"Alone!" what  a  grief  in  the  thought! 

All  the  myrrh  that  time  ever  has  stirred, 
Or  Araby's  riches  have  bought — 
All  regrets  for  the  joys  that  have  flown 
Are  hung  on  the  shield  of  "Alone!" 

With  Thee  I  never  grow  lonely; 
Sweet  thoughts,  as  illumined  evangels, 
Troop  round  me  from  Thee,  my  One  Only ! 
In  garmented  lustre  of  angels — 
Melting  the  lead  and  the  stone 
And  hurling  outcast  the  ' '  Alone  ! ' ' 

This  proof  that  I  love  is  the  truest: 
That,  with  Thee,  my  spirit  is  ever 
Aglow  with  the  brightest  and  newest 
And  all  that  is  joyous  and  clever, 
And  all  the  lone  shadows  are  thrown 
Out  of  my  soul,  with  "Alone!" 

Sweetheart,  without  thee  my  life, 
'Mid  the  still  of  the  wilds,  or  the  bowers 
Of  musings  outside  from  the  strife, 
Or  the  beds  of  the  canopied  flowers, 
Of  the  crowds  of  the  city,  I  own 
But  roams  with  the  spirit  "Alone!" 


My  Young  Wild  Rhyme  77 

Many  the  signs  that  I  love  Thee, 
Clear  as  the  sky,  when  the  bluest 
And  cleanest,  is  arching  above  Thee 
And  shining  the  finest  and  truest ; 
But  the  one  I  highest  enthrone 
Is :   With  Thee  I  never  am  lone ! ' ' 

Love  me,  and  life  is  a  boon; 
Be  with  me,  and  life  is  a  song 
Sung  o'er  the  stars  and  the  moon, 
And  e'er  in  the  midst  of  a  throng 
Of  thoughts  of  all  gladness  and  Duty 
Transfigured  to  radiant  Beauty. 

The  spirit  of  Christmas  is  glad 
Since,  Vivian,  Thou  art  beside  me. 
How  could  there  be  anything  sad 
Or  gloominess  ever  betide  me ! 
Thou  crown  of  all  women,  I  feel 
Thy  touch  and  the  kiss  of  Thy  weal! 

Come  close  to  me,  Darling,  and  fold 
Me  round  as  a  chainlet  of  pearls, 
With  thine  arms  as  a  chainlet  of  gold. 
And  kiss  me,  Thou  rarest  of  girls, 
And  now  and  forever  dethrone 
That  word  from  our  language,  "Alone!" 


MY  YOUNG  WILD  RHYME. 

One  little  flower  of  love  I  bring, 
God  touch  it  with  the  glow  of  spring, 
And  give  it  tints  of  more  than  pearl ! 
'Tis  not  a  queenly  maid  I  sing, 
Nor  fancied  love  of  fair  young  girl, 
Nor  red-cheeked  maid  of  social  times, 
But  her  who  sings  my  young  wild  rhymes. 


78  Three  Wrecks 

All  of  the  joys  there  are  for  me; 
All  of  the  love,  the  fond,  the  free; 
All  of  the  magic  paths  o'er-trod, 
That  stirred  all  songs  of  pathos'  sea, 
And  touched  with  beauty,  pureness,  God, 
Was  waked  to  life  in  distant  times, 
When  sang  she  me  my  young  wild  rhymes. 

How  sweet  the  strong  love  born  at  noon; 

Or  young  love  hid  in  heart  of  June ; 

Or  love  of  those  who  wisely  wed, 

And  sad  the  thought  they  pass  too  soon; 

But  sweeter  far  her  love,  who  led 

Me  from  my  wayward,  boyhood  times, 

While  singing  me  my  young  wild  rhymes. 


THREE  WRECKS. 

A  wreck  in  the  blue  of  the  heaven, 

Wreck  of  a  billowy  cloud — 
Cloud-waifs  that  are  drifting  and  driven, 

Shreds  of  a  cloud-ship  shroud! 
The  trail  of  a  midnight  comet 

Caught  in  the  spar  of  a  cloud ! 

Stars  in  their  raiment  of  yellow, 
Floating  a-top  of  the  waves — 

A-top  of  the  high  blue  billow 
Dashing  up  over  the  graves 

Of  the  crew  of  the  stranded  vessel, 

The  cloud-ship  that  broke  on  the  waves! 

A  glimmer  of  twilight  waiting 

The  roll  of  blue  waves  to  their  strand, 
With  waifs  and  a  starry  freighting 


Three  Wrecks  79 

To  crush  it  down  into  the  sand, 
To  hurry  this  remnant  of  twilight 

To  the  sky-shore  and  dash  it  a-strand ! 

The  face  of  the  moon  on  a  pillow 

Of  blue  encased  in  the  foam 
Of  a  white  cloud  stitched  to  the  billow — 

Cold  face,  pale  face  in  the  spume, 
And  dumb  and  afloat  as  a  corpse's 

Asleep  on  the  sea  and  its  foam! 

A  hum  of  the  fall  of  a  river 

That  sounds  like  the  flutter  of  wings 

Of  a  bird  in  the  sky,  and  ever 
Its  measure  is  sad,  as  it  sings! 

A  rainbow  of  white  in  the  heavens, 

Drooped  down  from  the  centre  as  wings. 

The  milk-white  way,  for  the  roaming 
Of  strange  stars  treading  the  way — 

For  those  that  come  up  from  the  gloaming 
To  East  and  go  down  in  the  spray 

That  breaks  on  the  walls  of  a  city, 

Where  they  rest  through  the  lustre  of  day. 

Now  and  then  one  flashing  and  falling 
Down  from  the  highway,  as  a  life ! 

Voices  of  "far-off"  calling! 
Sparks  from  a  memory  rife ! 

A  pale  face  pressing  a  window, 
Lips  blue  as  the  lips  of  her  life ! 

Lips  folding  the  name  of  a  lover! 

Heart  dead  as  a  heart-dead  tree! 
Tears  catching  the  purple  above  her 

And  the  dead-faced  moon,  maybe, 
And  painting  them  into  a  picture 

Of  a  tide-tossed  face  on  the  sea! 


80  Her  Gifts  to  Me 

Thin  hands  in  the  moonlight  folding 

Bitterly  over  a  breast, 
Clasping  them  over,  as  holding 

Her  own  sad  history  prest 
Alone  to  a  pitiful  bosom, 

Alone  to  a  blighted  breast! 

A  sky,  like  a  sea,  in  motion, 
The  wreck  of  a  cloud  o  'erhead ! 

A  sail  a-trail  in  the  ocean, 

Spars  bowing  above  the  dead ! 

A  wreck  in  the  heart  of  a  maiden, 
Xo  wonder  her  face  is  sad! — 

No  \vonder  the  red  cheek  blanches; 

No  wonder  the  lips  are  thin ; 
No  wonder  a  tear-tide  drenches 

Her  face ;  no  wonder  the  din 
Of  a  storm,  and  a  wreck,  and  a  sea-wail, 

Is  stirring  her  heart  within, 
At  a  scene  like  this ;  no  wonder 

She  leans  with  a  trembling  chin, 
Her  wan  face  pressing  the  window ; 

No  wonder  her  lips  are  thin ! 


HER   GIFTS   TO   ME. 

'Mid  the  fragrance  of  heliotrope, 

And  all  the  shades  of  purple  and  blue, 
And  droopings  of  vines  on  the  slope, 

And  blossoms  of  varied  hue ; 
With  red  of  all  shades,  and  the  white 

'Mid  green  of  all  various  shadow; 
And  birds  of  all  families  twittering, 

E'en  hummingbirds  dodging  and  glittering- 


Her  Gifts  to  Me  81 

Everything  smiling  delight; 

And,  timidly  crossing  the  trail, 
The  pretty  young  squirrel  and  quail; 

An  atmosphere  quiet  as  Aidenn, 
Delicious,   enlyring,  inspiring, 

Suffusing  my  love  with  desiring 
The  loves  of  my  beautiful  Maiden — 

Magnificent,  rare  El  Dorado !  - 

Such  beauty,  such  grandeur,  such  tonic 

Must  rouse  in  the  soul  a  cyclonic, 
Tempestuous  impulse  of  passion 

To  sing  in  Swinburnian  fashion; 
Or  sing  in  a  strain  that  is  quieter, 

The  rhythmic,  idyllic,  Ionic — 
To  Storm  in  my  songs  as  a  rioter, 

Or  sing  with  the  tender  emotion 
That  melteth  the  soul  to  devotion! 

As  I  dream  'mid  this  rich  rosy  sheen — 

As  I  muse  of  my  radiant  queen, 
I  know  which  you  guess  it  will  be ; 

For  you  see  thro'  shadows  and  glee 
All  the  thinking  and  loving  of  me — 

En  rapport  so  your  heart  with  my  own 
That  you  know  me  and  feel  me  so  easily — 

You  get  to  my  nature  so  teasily, 
As  you  say  with  an  eye-flash  and  glance : 
"  'Twill  not  be  the  riotous,  Darwin; 
Not  a  raging  and  Delphian  trance — 

Will  not  be  the  bitter  cyclonic — 
Will  not  be  the  cold-hearted  cynical, 

Nor  the  peevish  and  narrow  and  "finnical," 
Aloof  on  the  snow-blasted  pinnacle ! 

But  you  will  be  the  bard  to  entrance 
With  the  love-songs  of  tender  Ionic 

The  warm-hearted  singer,  the  Grecian, 
As  warm  as  the  colors  of  Titian, 


82  Her  Gifts  to  Me 

As  the  gold  of  the  fleeces  Elysian, 

Entrancing,  ecstatic,  harmonic, 
And  thus  will  your  genius  a  star  win, 

My  noble,  poetical  Darwin!" 
Thus  you  know  where  my  memory  clings ! 

To  the  heart  and  the  love  and  the  life 
Of  my  radiant  nymph  my  heart  brings 

Its  loves  and  its  joys  and  its  songs ! 
For  to  Thee  all  my  being  belongs. 

Thy  joys  make  me  glad,  and  thy  wrongs 

Stir  my  hatred,  my  bitter  resistance! 
I  grieve  at  thy  burdens  and  strife ! 

I  long  so  to  make  thine  existence 
One  round  of  the  leisurely  songs 

In  thy  heart  of  the  sweetest  of  pleasures 
And  all  the  best  wishing  of  treasures : 

Could  I  bring  all  these  wishings  to  Thee, 
Still,  Love,  it  would  hardly  be  half 

Of  the  red-blooded  wishes  from  me, 
Or  half  thy  deservings,  my  Charmer! 

But  no  heart  could  ever  be  warmer 
Than  my  heart's  emotions  for  Thee! 

I  would  make  the  great  world  ring  with  laugh 
Of  gladness  for  Thee  if  I  could— 

Blot  out  all  your  shadows  and  sadness, 
And  give  thee  a  fullness  of  gladness! 

I  wish  it,  I  know  that  I  would, 
Thou  Treasure  of  everything  good! 

Oh!   how  could  I  ever  repay 

My  God  for  what  he  bestows 
On  me  all  the  way  every  day — 

Such  things  as  I  need,  as  he  knows? 
So,  Vivian,  how  could  I  ever 

Repay  Thee  for  all  thy  bestowments, 
Thro'  all  of  the  multiplied  moments 

Of  pleasures  from  Thee  and  thy  charm? 


Esther  83 

I  worship  Thee  next  to  my  God! 

And  sometimes  when  love,  like  a  flood 
For  Thee  so  entrancingly  warm, 

Floods  my  spirit  from  chamber  to  chamber, 
What  wonder,  if  Thou  art  become 

Divine  unto  me,  when  you  clamber 
Up  into  the  throne  in  the  home 

Of  all  that  is  best — to  the  room — 
To  the  throne  of  my  kingdom — to  the  reign 

O'er  the  best  of  my  life — to  the  realm 
Of  a  Princess's  throne — to  the  helm 

Of  the  ship  of  my  life !    Thou  Vein, 
The  richest  I  ever  have  mined, 

Most  fathomless,  reddest,  refined! 


ESTHER, 

Esther,  the  light  sun  lingers 

And  works  with  his  gilded  fingers 

In  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
Under  and  over  tangling 

His  silken  rays, 

With  broken  ravelings  spangling 
The  breeze. 

Esther,  the  sun  with  gilt  fingers, 
That  works  in  the  tree-tops,  lingers 

Where  I  can  see, 
But  never  can  feel,  his  glory; 

And  so  of  thee 
The  ''dim-remembered  story" 

Unf elt  I  see ! 


84  Ellen 


ELLEN. 

Back  years,  many  years  in  the  distance, 
Where  the  sea  of  the  past  in  the  far-off 
Clasps  hands  with  my  life-sky  of  purple, 
Forever  I  see,  by  the  foaming, 
Her  feet  in  the  pebbles  of  sea-shells, 
Her  hair  in  the  hands  of  the  sea-breeze, 
Her  lips  in  the  kiss  of  the  sea-surf 
And  her  violet  eyes  in  a  tear-tide — 
Forever  I  see,  by  the  foaming, 
A  memory  fond  and  eternal: 
And  daily  I  kneel  by  the  sea-shore, 
And  holding  my  ear  to  the  sea-shells, 
Pink-lipped  and  eternally  singing, 
In  echo,  the  sounds  of  the  voices 
That  mingle  their  melody  o'er  them, 
I  catch,  from  their  lips  pink,  singing, 
The  prayer  of  my  beautiful  Ellen. 
Then,  looking  away  to  the  future, 
I  see,  on  the  rim  of  an  ocean 
More  peaceful  than  placid  Pacific, 
Out  of  Time  in  the  country  eternal — 
On  the  rim  of  the  waters  of  crystal, 
Her  hair  in  the  hands  of  the  breezes 
Of  balm  in  the  blisses  of  Heaven, 
Her  soul  brimming  over  with  beauty 
And  love  that  is  more  than  eternal. 
And  so  I  reach  back  in  the  distance, 
Regretting  the  shore  I  am  leaving, 
And  lean  with  a  hope  to  the  future, 
Rejoicing  at  what  I  am  nearing. — 
Look  back  dim-eyed  to  a  picture, 
A  memory  fond  and  eternal, 
Look  on,  with  a  hope,  into  Heaven, 
For  a  love  that  is  more  than  eternal — 
Look  back  on  the  dead  and  a  parting 
With  memory  fond  and  eternal — 


Inet  85 


Ahead  with  the  hope  of  a  meeting 
With  love  that  is  more  than  eternal. 


INET. 

Strange  I  hesitate  to  leave  you; 
Stranger  I  could  stay  and  grieve  you- 
Like  a  wind  that  standeth  still, 
Trembling  with  divided  will, 
Doubting  if  it  be  the  best 
Blowing  East  or  blowing  West ! 

Inet,  by  thy  paling  face ; 
By  thy  form's  befitting  grace; 
By  thine  eyes  of  double  blue. 
And  thy  tears  that  all-imbue, 
Leaving  thy  supernal  thought 
Beaming  thro'  and  beauty  fraught. 

By  thy  Byron-bended  lip, 
Changing  with  emotions  trip ; 
By  thy  lovely  forehead  bent 
Like  a  crown  of  wonderment ; 
By  thy  hands  that  never  rest, 
And  thy  soul 's  impassioned  zest ; 
By  thy  heart,  abounding  sweet, 
Which  would  stand  and  never  beat 
Rather  than  it  beat  untruth — 
By  the  beauties  of  thy  youth; 
By  all  these,  and  more  I  pray, 
My  unrest  to  let  me  stay! 

By  my  older  memories 

Of  a  younger  face  and  eyes — 


86  To  Esther 

By  a  love  I  cannot  give 
To  the  best  of  all  that  live ; 
By  a  longing  born  to  me, 
Dead,  yet  seeming  still  to  be. 

By  the  bloom  on  Anna's  grave; 
By  the  surges  of  a  wave 
That  has  swept  my  laugh  away- 
By  all  these,  and  more,  I  pray 
Let  me  go  from  thy  caress, 
Vain  to  rest  my  restlessness ! 


TO  ESTHER. 

God  set  a  clock  up  in  my  heart ;  it  standeth 

And  measureth  my  wayward  hours  of  living. 

It  ran,  long  time,  so  fitful  by  the  heaving 

Unrest  of  one  sweet,  boyish,  broken  passion. 

I   said    (God  knoweth   well   what   motive   so   com- 

mandeth) : 

"Doze  on,  my  heart!    'tis  not  worth  while  believing 
A  dream — 'tis  but  my  unforgetting  fashion!" 
And  so — I  heard  it,  thro'  my  years  of  slumbers, 
Tick  tenderly  and  measuring  my  yearnings, 
Tong  mellowly  my  hourly  heart-returnings 
Unto  the  hilltop  of  my  early  passion; 
While  morning  fire  of  boyhood  died  to  embers, 
And  I  dozed  on,  nor  rose  to  keep  its  burnings — 
0  love,  forgive  me!    'twas  my  wayward  fashion. 

It  was  my  fashion — until  at  the  setting 
Of  yester's  sun — the  tender  and  the  mellow 
Were  drowned  eternal  in  the  sudden  billow 
Of  an  alarm  tumultuous  loud  with  passion 
That  God  had  set  before  begun  regretting, 


Esther  87 

To  go  off  when  sweet,  distant-parted  Esther  died — 

and  yellow 
Hang   leaves   today,   that   yester-morn   hung   green 

'mid  bloom  of  fashion! 

So  is  the  way.    We  grow  up  as  the  bushes 

That  balmy  south  winds  blow  two  tops  together; 

Their  lip-leaves  kiss — their  branch  arms  woo  each 

other, 
So  float  they  in  the  May  with  warm  and  pleasant 

passion, 
Till  suddenly  the  wind  wheels  northward,  and  the 

blushes 
Of  leaves  and  flowers  steal  off,  and  they,  aged  by 

weather 
Of   griefs,    are   blown    to    other   mates — so    is    the 

fashion. 

The  one  then  nearer  to  the  cold  wind's  blasting 
Dies  earlier,  and  God  sets  off  that  crashing 
And  loud  alarm,  that  starts  the  other  dashing, 
Wild  with  the  anguish  of  his  hidden  passion, 
Thro'   his   short  lane   of  life!     Thus   seems   God's 

casting. 

Our  weak  eyes  cannot  read  this  mystic  flashing, 
Yet  God  knows  best — His  is  a  perfect  fashion! 


ESTHER. 

I. 

The  days  unevenly  fly  over,  Esther, 
In  jagged  flocks  of  unforgetful  years — 
Some  low  and  sorrowful  as  in  disaster; — 
Some  higher  longings  carry  as  the  condor; 
And  still  the  green  upon  my  spirit  seres, 
As  witherth  the  grasses,  in  the  autumns,  under 


88  Esther 

The  southward-soaring  flocks;   and  still  the  wonder 

Is  that  thine  arrow,  buried  in  my  tears, 

Fresh  woundeth  still  tho>  far  that  " Early  Tester." 

II. 

Sometimes  a  hundred  birds  go  over,  Esther, 

And  never  win  my  never-resting  eye; 

Then  one  small  note  may  prove  a  strong  requester, 

And  marvel  eyes  will  suddenly  be  lifted 

And  follow  them  along  the  yellow  sky, 

Until  the  last  one  silent-sad  has  drifted 

A-down  the  gloaming  distance,  then  I  sigh, 

Thus,  far  are  flown  my  hopes  of  " Early  Tester." 

III. 

Sometimes  a  lone  bird  worries  over,  Esther, 
And  winds  unfriendly  beat,  and  beat  it  back, 
And  so  it  flutters  earthward  from  the  bluster, 
And,  silent-grieving  as  a  thwarted  rover 
Who  chafes,  if  forced  to  bend  his  zigzag  track, 
Hangs,  tempest-baffled,  stationary  over. 
So  (0  my  deepest  worshiped,  wayward  lover)  ! 
Storm-beat  and  weeping  through  its  veil  of  black, 
I  seem  to  touch  heart  to  that  ''Early  Tester." 

IV. 

And  so  the  birds  go  on  and  over,  Esther, 

As  solemn  days  string  over  into  years ; 

Still  new  the  memory  of  that  disaster, 

And  all  the  word  from  back  of  me  is  "never!" 

The  while  the  green  within  my  spirit  seres ; 

And  all  the  utterance  from  o'er  the  river, 

Thor  mystical,  is  clear  to  me,  "dissever!" 

And  all  my  answer  is  the  threaded  tears 

That  string  a-down  the  path  to  "Early  Tester." 


My  Flowers  89 


MY  FLOWERS. 

I  sit  among  the  flowers  alone  to-day, 

And  yet  I  am  not — cannot  be  alone, 

For,  everywhere  that  blossoms  hold  their  sway 

In  winsome  dignity  or  sunshine  play, 

There  ever  comes  my  living  Flower,  my  own, 

With  more  than  splendor  of  enticing  flowers, 

And  pulsing  with  immortal  love-born  powers. 

The  asters,  star-strewn  from  the  vivid  earth, 
Nod  toward  me,  smiling  with  a  modest  sense 
Of  rarest  worth  and  high  nobility  of  birth ; 
But,  oh!   my  love's  bright  eyes,  profound,  intense, 
Look  into  mine,  outshining  in  their  look 
All  other  stars   (which  swiftly  pale,  forsook), 
And  fill  my  look,  my  heart,  my  all  with  thee, 
My  musing,  beaming  May,  best  star  to  me ! 

Syringa  swing  their  pure  and  spotless  white 

Above  my  head — o'er  my  once  weary  life — 

Drop  petals  as  the  snow,  yet  warm  as  flakes  of 
light; 

''Pure,  peaceable";  they  say,  and  lull  the  wind 
blown  strife ; 

But  thy  pure,  helpful  hand  swings  closer  to  me, 
Love, 

And,  putting  back  syringa  branches,  strokes  my 
cheeks, 

And  strews  the  petals  of  thy  pure  white  hallowed 
peace 

Upon  my  face  and  inner  soul  and  sweetly  speaks 

By  touch  as  frank,  love-full  as  souls  above; 

And  thus,  Dear  Heart,  my  spirit-chafings  cease ! 

Forget-me-not,  so  delicately  blue, 

Looks  up  and  pleads,  with  reticence  and  grace, 

"Come,  touch  my  soul,  enwrapt  in  loyal  hue, 


90  My  Flowers 

And   brush   my   timid   loneliness   with   thy   strong 

face!" 
Then,   opening   to   my   keepsake — withered?     Yes, 

but  true, 

And  vocal  with  a  blessed,  blessing  memory! — 
Thou,  Darling,  comest,  with  my  look,  and  that  small 

spray 

Transforms  to  thee,  thou  pretty,  patient  May, 
Transforms  to  thee,   my  true,  my  loyal  Love — to 

thee 

Who  fillest  all  my  vision,  all  my  ways,  my  heart! 
" Forget  me  not — forget  thee  not!"  thus,  brilliant 

Bird,  thou  art 

Forever  singing  to  my  happy  spirit!    Thee  forget? 
Seas,  continents,  might  come  between — yea,  death 

might  be, 
But  cleaves  my  soul  to  thee  thro'  time,  thro'  tides 

eternal  yet. 

Carnations  flame  my  eyes  before  and  fill 
With  fragrance  all  the  arbor  where  I  sit. 
Impassioned  loves  seem  throbbing  till  they  thrill 
The  beauty-lover  till  it  seemeth  fit 
Their  dumb,  red  loveliness  with  mutual  arms  em 
brace  ! 

But  thou,  warm-hearted  and  impassioned  lover, 
Dost  come  more  close  than  they — bend  over 
My  joy-o'erflowing  soul  and  fold  thy  shapely  arms 
About    my    being — press     those     scarlet,     lip-love 

charms 

Of  thy  carnation  heart,  and  flood,  in  tropic  kisses 
As  vivid  as  thy  love,  my  magnet  heart  with  passion ! 
That  is  thy  strong,  impulsive,  lawful,  chaste,  sweet 

fashion ! 
And  thus  thy  love  is  strength,  protection,  pureness, 

blisses, 

My  lily  white,  my  pure  and  frank  queen-lily  grace; 
My  aster  beauty,  star  that  never  fails — fixed  in  my 
sky; 


The  Loved  Unknown  91 

My  true  blue  Princess — my  forget-me-not;  and  my 
Carnation  richness  flaming  such  impassioned  love- 
caresses  ; 
My  joy,  my  light,  my  everything,  my  now  and  by- 

and-by ! 

'Mid  flowers  with  thee  I  evermore  would  tarry, 
My  bright,  my  beautiful,  my  iridescent  Carrie ! 


THE  LOVED  UNKNOWN! 

In-centred  in  my  throbbing,  chambered  heart, 

Is  one  most  beauteous,  sacred  sanctuary, 
The  central  room,  more  chaste  than  chiseled  art — 

More  garnished  than  all  Phidian  statuary, 
Or  painted  sentiment — alone  apart. 

Thou  midmost  chamber  of  my  soul  so  rife, 
About  whose  threshold  breaks  the  beating  strife 

Of  all  the  billowy  conflicts  of  my  spirit  life. 

Though  graced  in  beauties,  central,  tender,  first, 
A  twilight-sad,  a  dimming  shadow  e'er 

Hung  o'er  its  might-be  splendid  fittings  erst, 
A  presence  waiting,  with  her  fingers  fair, 

To  touch  aglow  the  hidden  wealth  with  touch 
As  angel  finger-tips,  and  look  with  such 

A  light  of  eyes,  and  voice  of  life,  so  much ! 

Such  presence  waiting  with  her  holy  cheer 
To  lift  the  shadows  from  my  human  shrine; 

Sweet  sounding  feet  upon  the  steps  to  hear — 
A  hallowed  face  with  saintly  love  to  shine 

Not  as  a  martyr's  shines;  but  come  to  smile 
My  spirit  from  its  martyr-Patmos  isle 

To  victor-day,  instead  of  sad  erstwhile ! 


92  The  Loved  Unknown 

So  out  of  this  unpeopled  spirit  shrine 

A  cry  has  sounded  through  the  marching  years — 
A  cry — unheard  to  human  heart  save  mine, 

Out-breathed  toward  God,  with  wavering  hopes 

and  tears! 
My  heart,  in  its  concealed  Gethsemane, 

Sweating  drops  of  blood  for  some  unknown — for 

Thee, 
Withholden  pleading  heart,  so  long  from  me. 

Bright  forms  and  faces — other  voices,  loves 

Came  trooping  on  and  took  their  common  places; 

From  windows  looked  as  delicate  white  doves, 
And  brought  their  meed  of  joys  and  helps  and 
graces ; 

But  this,  which  all  rooms  else  are  brass  beside 
Its  diamond  worths,  in  weeping  shades  must  bide, 

To  wait  the  coming  of  a  kindred  heart,  denied! 

The  pleading  mounts  like  martyr's  incense  up, 

"How  long,  Thou  Merciful,  how  long!"  and  still 
My  heart  lifts  in  its  anxious  hands  the  cup, 

And   tries   to   say,   "Though   long,   thy   way   my 

will! 
I  wait — I  wail  out  of  my  soul's  deep,  "Give 

The  heart  companion — newly  let  me  live  ! ' ' 
Yet  but  a  cross  looms  in  the  doorway  dim, 

Nailing  my  hope  deferred  upon  it  limb  to  limb ! 

May    your    kind    heart    ne'er    know    this    painful 
yearning 

That  hath  no  answer,  save  the  anguished  cry 
Whose  dimmer  echo  is  but  the  returning, 

Undying  cry  over  again,  "I  die! 
If  thou  give  not  the  kindred  heart  to  take 

My  vacant  shrine  of  heart,  that  will  not  break, 
Thou  ever  breaking  for  that  unknown's  sake!" 


Confidence  93 

He  knows.    He  holds  by  me  my  cross.    I  wait. 

I  wait  ?  Yet  always,  through  the  days  and  nights, 
Waking  and  sleeping,  thinking  and  dreaming,  in  a 

strait 

Betwixt  despair  and  hope  of  sweet  delights, 
There  breathes  from  out  the  spirit-depth  the  cry, 
As  lulled  child's  sob! — then  struggling,  breaketh 

high, 
"Come  in,  thou  coming  presence,  or  I  die!" 

Look !   suddenly  a  holy  hand  is  seen 

To  part  the  mist! a  voice,  "I  hear  thy  cry! 

It  is  enough !    Thy  dead  life  springs  to  green ! 

She  cometh  whom  I  perfect  made  for  thee!" 
Whate'er  I  be  to  thee,  thou,  Love,  hath  stepped 

Within  the  unpossessed  room,  out-swept 
The  shadows,  anguish,  doubtings,  where  I  wept. 
Sweet,  strange  uplift,  my  sunlight,  kindred  heart, 

Thou   new,  bright   guest   to   make   the   dead   life 

living — 
Pure,  beautiful,  who  such  as  thou  here  art? 

God  long  withheld  to  give  more  perfect  giving. 
Withheld  "One  little  while";  how  long  that  (little) 
"while"! 

Yet  now  how  short  it  seems,  under  thy  soulful 

smile ! 
Prolonged  forever  be  this  present  "little  while"! 


CONFIDENCE. 

Untroubled,  diamond  confidence, 

This  would  I  have,  my  priceless  pearl, 

That  need  not  question  whither,  whence, 
When,  why,  amid  the  changing  whirl, 

But,  pure  as  gold,  and  clear,  intense. 
Just  my  own  loyal  little  girl. 


94  Confidence 

That  in  thy  goings  and  thy  thought, 

Thy  pleasures,  pains,  thy  sweet  desire, 
By  what  or  whom  thy  heart  is  sought, 

Thou,  on  thy  soul's  impearled  lyre, 
Shalt  only  feel  my  touch  of  finger — 

Shalt  know  me  there  and  feel  my  gaze- 
My  presence  always  with  thee  linger, 

By  all  thy  bright  or  cloudy  ways! 

To  know  thou  standest  in  the  light — 
That  all  thou  art  within  is  day, 

And  all  thy  movements  diamond  bright 
And  open  as  a  sunny  bay — 

That  thou  hast  nothing  to  conceal 

To  know  which  might  becloud  my  weal! 

To  know,  if  with  thee,  or  if  miles 
Stretch  out  their  desert  loneliness, 

Still,  lover's  look,  or  lover's  smiles, 
Or  touch,  or  voice,  or  saintly  kiss, 

Love-speaking  gifts  or  written  words 

Do  never  flit  like  secret  birds 
To  any  heart  but  mine — intense 
And  clear  and  single  confidence ! 

To  know  thou  knowest  all  I  know 
Concerning  our  dear  fellowship — 

To  feel  I  know  that  thou  dost  throw 
Out  in  the  search-light's  glowing  dip 
Thy  heart  and  way — that,  lip  to  lip, 

We  only  ever  feel  the  flow 

Of  man's  and  woman's  holy  love, 
Proved  truer  as  we  ever  prove! 

To  have  thee  cure  this  heart  disease, 
Wrought  in  my  -spirit  thro'  the  years 

Of  broken  longings,  sorrow's  seas 
Of  dead  hopes  and  of  leaden  tears ! 

To  cure  by  such  o  'ermast  'ring  love, 


To  Anna  95 


Such  single  love  as  from  above 
Might  fill  an  angel's  heart  of  fire, 
Or  weight  with  love  a  seraph 's  lyre ! 

No  woman's  hand  but  thine  for  me! 

No  tender  folding  arm  but  thine ! 
No  other's  love-look  would  I  see! 

Thy  kisses  so  my  soul  refine — 
No  other  lips  shall  magnetize 
My  nature  into  ecstasies! 

Is  this  too  much  to  give,  my  queen? 

Nay,  had  I  powers  of  heart  and  mind 
And  charms  of  all  e'er  love  has  seen 

Abundant  as  the  fire-refined 
Rich  Afric  diamonds  and  the  gold 

Of  Incas  stored,  I'd  give  thee  all, 

And  cry,  my  queen,  '  *  'Tis  all  too  small ! 

Is  this  too  much  to  ask  from  thee, 
My  Princess,  with  the  pearled  crown, 

Invisible  to  all  but  me 

And  Christ,  who,  loving  us,  looks  down? 


1  > 


TO  ANNA. 

Could  all  this,  then,  of  life  so  warm, 

And  eyes  and  tints  of  pulsing  form, 

And  thoughts  and  soul  and  love  and  passion, 

Transcendant  beauty,  vigor,  charm, 

With  every  fibre  thrilling  life — 

Seraphic  strength  in  conquering  strife 

'Gainst  all  unbeautiful  and  bad — 

Could  these,  my  voiceless  Anna,  die? 

These  tints  of  living  hues  turn  ashen  f 


96  To  Anna 

This  sainted  form  thus  smileless  lie, 
The  laughter  dead  in  silence  sad? 

What?    Death,  you  say,  claims  all  of  this! 

Thy  tropic  love-full  luring  kiss 

Now  chills  like  lips  of  frosted  lead ! 

How  slight  thy  frame,  a  child's  in  weight! 

Thy  flush  of  colors  all  have  fled, 

And  Thou  are  still — so  still,  so  slight — 

How  shadowy  and  weirdly  white ! 

White,  motionless,  so  like  the  light, 

On  marble  shrouds  from  stars  of  night ! 

As  happy  stars  that  glide  away 

As  dawning  comes,  to  lose  their  glow 

By  deep  engulfing  in  the  day, 

In  All-engulfing  reigning  Sun — 

Thou,  Anna,  darker  earth  forsook, 

Drawn  upward  from  the  earthly  blight 

And  all  its  fickleness  and  stain, 

Away  from  all  thy  withering  pain — 

Out  of  the  pain  and  stain  of  night 

Into  the  glad,  eternal  deep 

Of  God's  ineffable  sweet  light! 

How  rapturous  thy  dying  look ! 

How  strange  thy  pale  unbreathing  sleep ! 

Ought  we  to  weep?     Can  I  refrain? 

0  Anna,  though  my  heart  may  break 
Since  thou  hast  flown  so  far  apart, 

1  cannot  lose  thee,  for  its  cords 
Extend  to  Thee !    they  draw,  they  ache 
With  that  unutterable  strain; 

Yet  break  not  with  my  breaking  heart. 
By  this  I  have  the  certain  token, 
More  vivid  than  all  uttered  words, 
A  prophecy  fore'er  unbroken: 

''I  cannot  lose  Thee,  always  mine, 
Alive  for  aye  with  love  divine!" 


To  Anna  97 

Thou  cans't  not  leave  me  in  thy  going; 
I  cannot  lose  Thee  in  my  staying; 
This  glowing  of  my  soul  is  knowing; 
This  wishing  of  my  heart  is  praying. 
How  beautiful  in  life,  but,  dead, 
Thou  art  more  beautiful  and  glowing: 
Grief-winged,  love-winged,  I  speed  to  Thee 
On,  upward  from  this  waiting  dread 
To  thine  eternal  loving — free!! 


The  Valley  of  Peace 


RELIGION  AND  PATRIOTISM 


THE  VALLEY  OF  PEACE. 

Shall  we  strive  without  fruit  in  the  struggles  eter 
nal 

For  name  on  the  earth  or  for  purse  in  the  hands? 
We  shall  end  in  a  dearth  that  consumeth  the  vernal 
Delights  of  the  life,  and  the  death  of  the  lands 
Of    the    heart    that    was    flowery, — now    burning 
with  sands. 

Shall  unholy  ambitions  aspire  to  be  set 

In  the  gardens  of  fancy — false  Edens  we  crown 

The  cool  heights  of  life  with — to  drink  and  forget 
The  bitter  below,  and  to  never  go  down 
Till  the  wildest  desires  in  fruition  shall  drown? 

Shall  we  beat  a  bold  march  with  anticipate  feet 
For    the    fancy -built    Edens?      With    hope    over 
grown, 

Shall  they  strike,  to  be  stricken  in  turn,  and  re 
treat 

In    despair,    and   fall    down    as    the    trees    over 
blown, — 
Lie  as  helpless  as  they  and  as  dust-overstrown? 

Shall  we  rush  as  a  storm  that  would  master  the 

mountains, 

And  pour  out  our  blood  as  the  clouds  that  are 
red? 

Ah,  the  storm  shall  be  broken  to  murmuring  foun 
tains 


The  Valley  of  Peace  99 

Retreating  dismayed  to  the  lowliest  bed 

In  the  bottom  of  ocean,  and  lie  down  as  dead. 

Can  we  not  be  content  with  the  peace  that  is  sweet 
In  the  shadows  of  vines  over  ways  that  are  mild? 

But  as  birds  from  the  vines,  must  we  fret  as  we 

beat 
Our  wings  to  the  trees  that  are  lofty  and  wild 

To  do  battle  with  serpent-desires  indiscreet? 

They  shall  twine  us  in  coils   strong  as  sinews  of 

sin, 
And    shall    drag    us    down    lower, — down    lower, 

alas ! 
Than  the  vineyards  of  peace  that  we  left;   and  we 

win  ? — 

But  the  dust  of  defeat  and  the  dirges  of  grass 
Seethed  over  hope-graves  we  shall  mourn  as  we 
pass. 

Oh !   the  fair  little  valley,  delectable  vale, 
Set  full  of  humilities  blooming  in  glory, 

Vined  over  in  virtues,  untorn  by  the  gale, 

That  blows  in  high  places  of  Earth  that  are  hoary 
And    fretted    with    frosts    and   hail-gashed   until 
gory. 

Oh  !   the  sweet  little  valley,  shut  in  from  the  storms 
By  roses  of  candor  with  petals  of  splendor! 

0  duties  so  fruited  with  beautiful  forms 

Abashing    to     pleasures !      Oh !     chastened    and 

tender 
And  holy  affections — and  God  is  Defender! 

Come  down  from  the  strife  in  the  idol  high-places, 
And  in  from  the  wars  on  the  turbulent  plains. 

Why  look  thus  so  long  into  treacherous  faces? 
You  only  shall  gain  from  your  terrible  pains 
A  life  that  is  maimed  and  a  spirit  with  stains. 


100  Song  for  Faith 

Would  you  taste  of  true  pleasures  humility-sent, 
Red  jewels  of  Jesus  have  paid  for  the  peace 

That  remaineth  for  us,  and  the  price  of  content. 
They  have  bought  you  a  rest  that  is  richer  than 

fleece 
Of  all  glory  or  gold  that  the  years  may  increase. 

Turn  back  from  a  battle  of  futilest  blows! 
You  shall  strive — but  be  foiled  in  the  struggle  at 

last. 
Here  Heaven  has  planted  a  perfect  repose, 

Where  branches  are  fruited  with  joys,  and  they 

cast 
Their  blossoms  of  love  for  the  beds  of  your  rest. 


SONG  FOR  FAITH. 

I. 

Kneel  down  upon  the  sanded  plains 
Extended  back  beyond  the  years 

Of  recollections  gemmed  with  tears 
Set,  in  repeated  rings  of  pains — 

On  spirit  fingers  red  with  stains ! 

Reach  back  to  recollections,  sweet, 
In  years  with  smiles,  as  gleaming  sets 

In  rings  of  promise — holy  jets 
On  white  pure  fingers,  ere  defeat 

Had  stained  with  struggles  indiscreet! 

Kneel  down  upon  the  sanded  life, 
Look  back  a  moment — turn  and  gaze 

With  net-strewn  eyes  to  future  ways — 
Thro'  tangled  vision  to  the  days 

That  fret  with  expectations  rife 

With  thoughts  delusive,  hands  of  strife! 


Song  for  Faith  ,  - 191 

Look  to  the  sacred  fields  above 

To  God's  eternal  in  extent, 
Yon  boundless  ring  in  glory  bent, 

And  set  with  worlds  as  sweet  as  love 
And  worlds  of  power  and  beauty  blent ! 

Have  faith  a  moment;    strength  beget 

By  yon  strong  scenes  and  thoughts  that  roll 

In  floods  of  might  upon  the  soul ! 
Have  faith  a  moment — feel  that  yet 

Some  days  are  not  red  with  regret! 

Have  faith  a  moment;  stir  to  life 

Dead  wishes;  call  to  marshal  ways 
The  scattered  plans  of  futile  days 

The  broken  ranks  of  early  strife! 

Have  faith  a  moment;  in  desire 

Arise  and  cry:     "I  shall  be  heard 
In  songs  as  sweet  as  singing  bird — 

With  faith  that  mighty  scenes  inspire, 
Shall  ravish  hearts  that  love  the  lyre!" 

Aye  faith  a  moment!     Then  a  shadow 
Shall  slide,  like  death,  beneath  the  ring 

That  bore  you  faith:    you  turn,  you  bring 
Sad  recollection — broken  string  ! — 

From  earlier,  fancied  El  Dorado, 
A  desert  now,  with  sandy  sting! 

For  faith  is  made  a  broken  thing 

When  you  remember  youthful  strings 

Broken,  and  your  broken  wings. 

You  fling  your  mantle  to  the  earth; 

You  prostrate  you;  you  dew  the  dust; 
You  cast  aside  the  ruined  trust, 

The  faithless  faith  of  worthless  worth! 


102  :  :  Song  for  Faith 

Another  glass  of  brilliant  hues — 

With  pictured  beauties,  you  have  planned, 

Has  toppled  on  the  spirit  sand 

And  clanged  to  pieces  ?     Lo !  your  hand 

Is  bleeding  from  the  cut  and  bruise. 

Brush  up  the  fragments;  lay  them  by, 
Like  frozen  drops  of  poisoned  dews, 

A  heap  of  sad,  chaotic  hues — 
The  ruins  of  a  shattered  lie, 

A  sorrow  to  the  aching  eye ! 

II. 

"0  thou  of  little  faith,  alas! 

Shall  youth's  defeat  forever  cast 
Its  shadow  o'er  all  life  thou  hast? 

Shall  wills  be  broken,  as  a  glass 
Of  fancy  in  the  soul  ?  .  .  .  alas ! ' ' 

We  listen  to  such  language  float 
To  us  from  men,  strong  in  belief! 

We  snatch  a  moment  from  our  grief, 
That  we  may  feel  their  faith,  remote ! 

The  child  in  power,  but  tower  in  faith 
Runs  by  us,  doubtful  in  the  race, 

While  we,  who  run  with  shifting  pace 
Then  fall  prone  in  the  dusted  path, 

Lift  up  to  such,  a  weary  face. 

We  raise  our  red  eyes  in  surprise 
To  see  them  win — to  hear  them  call 

In  tones  alluring:  "Ye  who  fall, 

Look  up!  arise!  have  faith!  be  wise!" 

We  smile  again  thro'  veils  of  sighs. 

The  weak  confound  the  strong  and  wise; 
We  see  the  child,  so  strong  in  power, 


Song  for  Faith  103 

Crowned  with  its  wishes  in  an  hour — 

We  see,  and  read,  thro'  faithless  eyes: 
"By  faith  he  wins;  by  doubt  he  dies!" 

We  read  until  the  letters  set 

Their  photograph  upon  the  soul. 
We  murmur:     "Yea,  stand  up!    control 

The  fretful  surges  of  regret — 
The  faithless  never  conquered  yet! 

"Shall  men  rush  by  entrancing  song, 

The  echoes  of  diviner  things? 
And  mock  and  say:     "Alas!    be  strong! 

Sweep  down  the  ways  of  time,  among 
The  mighty  ones !     With  broken  wings, 

Stand  not  aside,  and  weak  complains 
Pour  forth  in  sad  and  sunless  strains! 

"We  shall  be  heard,  in  words  of  fire — 

In  words  that  burn  tempestuous  ways 
Thro'  subtle  hearts,  till  they  shall  blaze 

Responses  to  our  red  desire — 
Shall  call  in  words,  that  shall  amaze 

The  heedless  to  our  song  and  lyre ! 
The  orator  shall  reap  the  field 

Which  to  the  poet  would  not  yield." 

We  hasten  down  'mid  turbid  men — 
Have  faith  a  moment — 0  how  fair! 

When  faith  has  trampled  down  despair, 
Is  all  the  world  we  rise  to  win ! — 

And  in  that  moment,  yea,  we  dare 
To  set  our  banner  in  the  air, 

"Be  ye  not  faithless — it  is  sin!" 

Have  faith  a  moment — 0  how  frail! — 
Then  look  back  o'er  the  sterile  past 

And  see  a  withered  effort  cast 
Unheeded  to  the  sand  and  gale ; 


104  Song  for  Faith 

This  recollection  throws  its  blight 
Of  gloom  upon  us — 0  how  frail 

Our  sickened  faith ! — A  helpless  wail 
Now  flings  its  sadness  on  delight, 

And  hides  it  in  our  sudden  night ! 

Lie  down — alas !  it  cannot  be 

That  men  shall  hear  us — let  us  asleep 
In  dreams  of  bitterness,  and  deep ! 

No  faith,  no  work — to  you,  to  me, 
Dead  ships  upon  a  dark-dead  sea! 


III. 

[0  armied  soul,  torn  by  defeat 

Thro'  reeking  years  of  retrospect, 

Thou  bleedest  still  to  recollect — 
Will  not  inure  to  barren  heat — 

Too  bitter  with  too  little  sweet! 

:0  soul  with  unextinguished  might! 

Ah !  soul  subdued  for  want  of  faith, 
Inaction  is  prophetic  death! — 

Run  swift,  by  faith,  from  sullen  night 
To  plenitude  of  golden  light!" 

What?    "Golden  light"!    Ye  would  not  hear 

The  pearly  melodies  of  youth, 
The  songs  of  unpolluted  truth — 

Some  few,  ye  listened  but  to  jeer 
And  taunt  the  poet  of  his  tear! 

And  hearers,  when  we  poured  desire 
In  burning  eloquence  of  speech, 

Ye  would  not  feel  their  fiery  reach ! 
The  rostrum  with  the  futile  lyre 

But  crumbled,  when  we  would  aspire ! 


Song  for  Faith  105 

Men  would  not  hear  those  sacred  sounds; 

But  golden  sounds !     The  earth  shall  listen 
To  metal  melodies  that  glisten! — 

Arise  in  faith  from  barren  ground! 

We  speed  swift  to  the  marts  of  earth; 

We  sing  a  canticle  to  gold, 
And  cry:    "Be  rich,  and  you  shall  fold 

New  wonders  in  their  dress  of  birth — 
Hang  keys  of  glory  to  your  girth!" 

The  slighted  singer  shall  arise ; 

And  men  shall  crowd  to  hear  the  cling 
Of  gold,  who  spurned  to  hear  him  sing! 

The  rostrum  paved  with  silver  buys 
The  auditors  the  world  denies 

To  him  who  brings  no  offering ! 

0  faith !  we  feel  thy  hand  endow 
One  spirit  with  the  strength  of  ten. 

We  thrust  our  arms,  where  other  men 
Are  gaining — ah!  we  know7  not  how? 

God !    touch  thy  finger  on  that  brow 
That  leans  to  mine — let  love  unpin 

Its  knotted  bitterness  of  sin, 

Knotted,  alas!     .     .     .     we  know  not  how? 

Nay — he  has  gold,  and  women  kiss 

That  demon  net-work  on  his  brow, 
And  call  it  fair — they  know  not  how? 

Men  have  forgotten  that  for  this. 

They  say:    "That  wise,  deep  trader's  eye!" 
Sweet  sunny  lie     .     .     they  know  not  why? 

They  say:    "That  fine  keen  trader's  brow!" 
And  love  his  words — they  know  not  how? 

Aha !    have  faith  a  moment ;  we 
Shall  hold  the  magnetizing  touch 


106  Song  for  Faith 

That  draws  so  many,  and  so  much 

Of  all  the  deep  and  human  sea — 
Have  faith  a  moment,  chin  to  knee ! 

"We  reach  a  bold  hand  toward  the  shine — 
Then  we  remember, — that,  in  woe, 

We  reached  before,  and  to  and  fro 

We  grasped  the  mammon  from  the  mine 

And  drowned  in  placers  thoughts  divine. 

We  gained  a  time,  then  Heaven  swept 
The  burning  curse,  and  Satan  gleams 

And  all  its  fallacy  of  dreams 

To  other  hands,  yet,  hands  that  reapt 

What  we  had  sown,  while  they  had  slept. 

0  recollection  stern  as  swords! 

Be  still  a  moment!    Faith  is  dead? 
Be  sad,  but  silent  at  her  head! 

The  deeds  of  promised  mighty  tread 
Have  vanished  into  drooping  words! 

The  golden  idols  we  had  set 

In  splendor  by  a  future  way 
Have  melted  in  the  desert  day 

And  drifted  in  the  sand-regret, 
And  night  has  veiled  their  painful  fret. 

IV. 

We  famish  in  the  sombre  waste — 

Lo!   No!   A  light  breaks  on  the  night 

From  eyes  of  beauty  and  delight, 
The  outlooks  of  a  spirit  chaste. 

A  voice,  a  woman,  come  to  love ! 

She  speaks  in  accents  sweet  attuned 
To  mild  looks,  mild  as  mellow-mooned 


Song  for  Faith  107 

And  peaceful  purple  swung  above, 
And  touching  as  the  turtle  dove. 

We  lift  our  pale  looks  from  the  earth; 

We  feel  relief  from  gushing  tears; 
A  moment  we  forget  the  years 

And  all  their  wilderness  of  dearth, 
And  all  their  shallowness  of  worth. 

She  calls  in  words  that  heal  as  balms : 
"Have  faith,  and  you  have  love,  and  you 

Have  plucked  a  promise  rendered  true; 
And  peace  shall  leave  out  in  the  calms, 

And  blossom  in  your  very  palms ! ' ' 

We  do  have  faith;  we  rise  to  kiss 

The  love  inviting  us  to  peace — 
But,  ah !  peace  comes  by  faith,  and  this 

Comes  only  thus — the  golden  fleece 
Of  all  the  earth ;  thus  we  may  win 

By  work  in  faith — but  not  in  sin! 

We  do  have  faith ;  we  breathe  our  smiles ; 

And  sorrow,  grown  in  gloomy  caves, 
Droops  in  their  sunshine.     Sturdy  waves 

Of  faith,  forgetful  of  the  wiles 
Of  early  fancy,  drown  their  graves. 

Faith!    faith  a  moment;  then  it  breaks 
On  thirsty  sands  that  drift  up  thro' 

The  gory  years!    We  see,  anew, 
That  childhood  lover,  who  forsakes 

All  we  can  offer,  hope,  or  do ! 

Frail  faith ;  not  faith  that  shall  endure  I 
We  tremble  at  love's  sudden  frown, 

And  murmur  as  the  stars  go  down — 
The  hopes  that  shone  out  to  allure ! 


108  Song  for  Faith 

We  move  not  from  our  dreary  places, 
But  fall  upon  the  famished  earth, 

And  loose  again  the  gathered  girth, 
And  lean  down  our  deploring  faces ! 

Love-lorn  and  weak,  we  lie  and  cast 

A  glance  of  pity,  each  to  each, 
While  all  things  seem  to  fly  our  reach ; 

And  we  point  backward  o'er  the  past — 
Then  kiss  our  faith  in  death,  at  last! 

V. 

The  young  have  faith.    This  may  be  well, 
But  when  the  days  of  danger  come — 

The  days  of  false  hearts — yea,  and  some 
That  scathe  you  with  the  breath  of  hell, 

That  try  the  soul — shall  faith  expire? 
Or  come  thro'  purified  with  fire? 

This  makes  the  difference  in  lives, 
The  faith  of  one  despairs  and  dies, 

While  one  endureth  as  the  skies; 
In  winning  lives  the  faith  survives. 

Then  be  not  faithless,  but  believing; 

The  reeking  corpses  of  designs 
Dead  unfulfilled,  and  drear  repines 

Are  strewn  around  you,  undeceiving 
All  faithless  workers  in  the  mines. 

One  man  has  sown,  in  dreamy  youth, 
On  fields  to  reap  sweet,  fancied  flowers 

Of  love,  thro'  long  refulgent  hours — 
One  deeming  all  things  are  but  truth. 

One  man  has  sown  the  world  with  songs, 
And  deemed  the  lauding  world  should  rise, 

And  sheave  them  into  shining  ties 

And  bear  them  home  in  chanting  throngs. 


Song  for  Faith  109 

One  man  has  sown  in  eloquence 

The  hearts  of  men  and  deemed  that  they 

Should  follow  down  the  harvest-way, 
And  gather  into  silken  tents 

His  works  sheaved  into  super-sense. 

One  man  has  sown  the  rocky  earth, 

With  sparks  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
And  deemed  that  he,  as  tales  are  told, 

Should  reap  in  mines  of  wonder-worth. 

All  sow  in  faith,  the  sterner  few 

In  faith  enduring.     More  there  be 
Have  faith  a  moment;  then  the  sea 

•Goes  down  beneath  them,  deep  and  blue. 

Be  strong  of  faith.     No  human  might 
Can  hew  peace  out  of  rugged  strife, 

Or  taste  aught  of  the  sweets  of  life, 
If  one  be  faithless  in  the  fight. 

We  must  be  wise,  we  must  endure 

The  keen  inclemencies  of  time — 
Some  harsh  lines  breaking  up  the  rhyme 

Of  changing  years ;  and  hands  impure 
Must  touch  sometimes  our  garment-hem, 

We  must  endure  the  touch  of  them; 

We  must  have  many  gifts,  if  we 
Would  garner  noble  fruits  of  earth ; 

But  these  were  still  of  little  worth 
If  we  be  faithless.    It  must  be 

That  we  have  faith,  or  days  of  dearth. 

Such  faith  will  win  the  wealth  of  time; 

But,  0  sweet  faith,  that  leadeth  one 
To  holy  days  beyond  the  sun 

To  God's  days  with  their  rests  sublime. 


110  Our  Inner  Temple 


OUR  INNER  TEMPLE. 

We  stand  looking  out,  and  the  curses  of  gains 
Do  gleam,  like  a  charm-serpent,  into  our  eyes; 
And  we  strike  oars,  and  strive  up  the  river  of 

sighs, 

Till  we  reach  lands  of  silver — ay !  win  silver  chains, 
That  link  and  re-link  us  to  riches — of  pains ! 

Till  the  fair  walls  of  heart-temple  crumble  within; 
And  spiders  of  greed,  in  the  desolate  rooms, 
Have  spun  and  entangled  the  forsaken  blooms 
Of  feelings  divinest,  and  which  should  have  been 
Bloom-bougiis  for  good  thoughts,  and  not  spiders  of 
sin! 

What  matters  to  Him,  who  hath  builded  a  world, 
What  palace  of  marbles  or  mansion  of  woods 
We  may  build?    Or  the  wealth  or  the  splendor  of 

goods 

We  may  wrap  our  mortality  in?  or  impearled 
And  plentiful  jewels?  or  lingers,  ring-curled? 

But  the  temple  of  spirit!   bring  hither  thy  gold, 
And  all  the  rich  jewels  of  children  of  thought, 
That   are   pure   in   thy   heart,    and  fair  be   they 

wrought 
For  the  temple  and  shrine  that  should  never  grow 

old- 
Be  all  of  it  clean  as  the  crystals  of  gold. 

Be  it  sweet  with  the  breath  of  all  thoughts  that  are 

true! 
Be  it  hoarded  with  feasts  that  are  life  to  the 

soul! 
Build  it  strong  and  divine  with  its  beauties,  its 

goal 


What  Is  Great?  Ill 

Is  highest  of  all,  and  is  brighter  than  dew — 

Yea,  this  is  the  tower  that  must  reach  to  the  Blue! 

And  One  shall  come  in  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
And  shall  sup  with  thy  soul,  and  shall  lay  his 

dear  hand 

With  its  blessing  upon  thee,  in  words  that  com 
mand — 
And  shall  kiss  thy  lips  peace,  and  shall  bend  down 

and  lay, 
A  rest  on  thy  life,  that  shall  be  rest  for  aye ! 


WHAT  IS  GREAT? 

All  earth  is  not  great  in  all  time; 

It  shall  pass  as  the  leaves  and  as  we; 
And  all  we  call  great  and  sublime 

Is  an  atom  cast  under  the  sky 
And  His  hand-palm  may  measure  the  sea. 

The  queen  by  the  populous  Thames 

Rules — more  than  the  queen  of  the  bees 

Subscribed  in  her  limited  claims? 

How  much  more  the  sovereign  of  seas, 

Than  the  queen  of  inhabited  trees? 

Cast  out  of  the  balance  the  soul, 

Which  queen  shall  be  lifted  of  these, 

The  queen  that  the  people  control, 
Or  she  who  controlleth  the  bees? 

Frail  queen  of  the  isles  in  the  seas? 

We  stand  on  the  summits  of  earth — 

Look  down  through  the  surges  of  trees 
That  belt  them  about  as  a  girth, 


112  What  Is  Great? 

And  we  bend  to  the  snows  on  our  knees, 
Adoring  the  grandeur  of  these ! 

These  wonderful  spires  of  the  world 

Are  but  as  unevenness  seen 
On  oranges,  save  they  are  pearled 

With  sparkles  of  ice,  and  are  green 
With  finger-ring  forests,  between! 

This  only?     0  little  of  thought! 

Arise  and  go  down  in  the  vale ! — 
And  yet  with  a  price  we  are  bought — 

With  a  price,  and  his  promises  fail 
Not  even  to  us,  in  the  vale ! 

The  spirit!    aye,  this  is  the  trust, 
Outweighing  the  burden  of  earth, — 

And  not  the  frail  fashioned  of  dust — 
The  price  an  Immanuel  worth ; 

Be  it  born  to  his  beautiful  birth! 

Shall  we  sell  it  for  bullets  of  gold, 
To  shoot  down  the  pleasures  of  life? 

To  be  eaten,  as  mortals,  by  mould? 
Or  to  master  a  brother  in  strife? — 

For  a  breath  shall  we  barter  a  life? 

Shall  we  buy  with  it  only  a  passion, 
That  begins  a  sweet-shining  desire, 

That  burns  'mid  the  madness  of  fashion, 
Consuming  all  beauty,  as  fire, 

In  the  gloom  of  despair  to  expire? 

Shall  we  sell  it  for  only  a  flame, 
Burning  letters  of  glory  a  time? 

Shall  we  part  with  a  gem  for  a  name? 
That  shall  die  to  dull  letters  in  time — 

As  cold  words  written  in  rime 

On  a  pane  in  a  wintery  clime? 


Peace  113 

Our  hopes  are  far  richer  than  these, 

Far  grander  than  all,  if  we  hold 
To  the  gems  of  Immanuers  seas. 

They  are  richer  than  rubies  or  gold; 
They  are  love  that  shall  never  be  old. 

Our  God  has  a  garden  of  sweet, 

A  mine  of  untarnishing  gold, 
A  name  of  renown  and  replete 

With  applause  that  shall  never  be  cold — 
Love-songs  that  shall  never  be  old ! 


PEACE. 

Lo !   peace  is  the  essence  of  beauty,  and  we 

May  see  it  enrapt  in  the  soul  of  a  flower, 

And.  smiling  in  joy  from  a  sun-strewn  sea, 

When  the  turbulent  storms  and  the  waves  of  power 

Have  gone  with  their  mobs  and  left  it  to  quiet, 

And  beauty  has  leveled  the  thrones  of  the  riot. 

The  sporting  of  beasts  and  the  flutter  of  birds, 
In  plays  of  beauty,  in  ways  of  mirth, 
Are  scenes  of  delight,  and  the  notes,  as  words, 
Are  belting  the  years  with  a  shining  girth — 
With  bands  of  glory  and  clasps  of  peace — 
With  gleams  excelling  the  golden  fleece. 

The  stars  in  heaven,  the  eyes  below 
Have  nothing  of  beauty  if  naught  of  rest, 
And  how  with  the  frantic  and  swirling  snow, 
And  the  tossing  of  clouds  on  the  rifted  crest, 
Implore  that  the  wars  of  men  may  cease 
And  harmony  sit  on  the  thrones  of  peace ! 


114  My  America 

War,  war !  and  its  heart  of  brass ! 
Be  ground  into  dust — to  the  waters  be  cast, 
To  the  winds  be  blown! — be  crushed  as  glass !- 
Be  floated  and  drifted  and  lost  in  the  past ! 
To  love  be  ransom,  and  beauty  release ! 
And  strife  be  drowned  in  the  flow  of  peace! 

" Peace  in  Heaven!   and  peace  upon  earth!" 
The  sound  has  struck  on  the  walls  of  strife. 
Shall  it  rebound  to  a  world  of  dearth 
Of  peace  and  all  of  the  sweet  of  life? 
Or  level  the  walls,  as  the  trumpet  of  old, 
And  wind  the  earth  in  its  golden  fold? 

Peace  in  Heaven!  and  queen  of  men! 
Implore,  implore  that  the  walls  go  down 
Holding  the  cannons  of  battle  and  sin! — 
That  thoughts  of  beauty  and  love  may  drown 
Cold  drifts  of  hate !  that  the  snows  may  cease 
And  earth  be  jeweled  with  deeds  of  peace. 


MY  AMERICA. 

I. 

America  !    My  Land  of  Light ! 
Home  of  the  free !   fair  land  of  love ! 
Hater  of  wrongs!    Lover  of  right! 
Stripes  redder  than  the  pulsing  blood! 
Stripes  whiter  than  the  lily  white! 
Stars  of  gold  in  the  blue  above ! 
All  throbbing  love  and  glowing  good ! 
My  great,  "true  blue"  America! 
Thou  strength  of  Liberty  and  Law ! 


The  Child  of  Woe  115 

II. 

I  love  Thee  as  the  flowers  the  sun ! 
I  love  Thee  as  the  leaves  the  dew! 
I  love  Thee  as  the  stars  the  moon! 
I  love  Thee  as  the  sky  its  blue — 
Eternal  symbol  of  the  True ! 
I  pray  for  Thee,  I  weep  for  Thee, 
I  smile  for  Thee,  I  sing  with  glee 
For  Thee !    My  hand  shall  ever  be 
To  wave  thy  banner,  clothed  in  glory! 
To  fight  for  Thee !     I  sing  thy  story 
Of  triumph  over  land  and  sea! 

America !     America ! 
Thou  strength  of  Liberty  and  Law ! 

III. 

America!     Thou  land  foreseen — 
Thou  vision  of  the  seers  of  old! 
Thou  art  supreme,  as  thou  hast  been 
Thou  nugget  of  the  finest  gold! 
And  so  I  love  my  country  more, 
Because  it  is  the  land  foretold! 
So  free  beneath  thy  flag  we  stand, 
And  wave  to  Heaven  the  shining  fold 
From  mountain,  vale  and  ocean  shore ! 
And  wrapped  about  in  stars  and  blue, 
And  clothed  in  stripes  of  winsome  hue — 
America  !   I  will  be  True ! 


"THE  CHILD  OF  WOE!" 

She  walks  on  the  shore  of  a  wintry  night; 

And  her  hands  are  thin,  and  her  hair  is  white — 

White  with  the  snows  that  come  below, 
And  each  flake,  pitying,  tries  to  light 


116  The  Child  of  Woe 

So  tenderly  over  the  " Child  of  Woe"— 
And  yet  as  they  gather  soft  and  slow, 
Clustering  over  her  neck  of  snow, 

She  shivereth  under  her  scanty  fold — 

Cold,  so  cold! 

The  world  is  white,  and  the  sky  is  hid 
By  tears  that  fall  from  under  the  lid 

Of  clouds  shut  over  the  eye-like  moon, 
As,  frozen  a  frosty  white,  they  glide 

Down  the  cheek  of  the  sky,  so  soon 
To  light  and  mingle  them,  cold  as  stone, 
With  tears  meandering,  one  by  one, 

Over  her  face — 0  men  with  gold! — 

Cold,  so  cold! 

The  clouds,  o'erhanging,  are  white  and  chill 
As  the  snowy  earth;  and,  up  on  the  hill, 

The  marble  monuments,  slim  and  tall, 
Lean  up  to  the  sky  so  pale  and  still; 

And  her  face  is  white  as  the  snows  that  fall- 
And  the  drearest  spot  in  her  heart  of  all, 
Is  where  there  trembles  the  cheerless  wail, 

A  word  too  sad  for  the  world  to  hold, 

"Cold,  so  cold!" 

The  snows  crowd  into  her  tattered  shoe — 
No  wonder  her  lips  are  thin  and  blue ! — 

And  blue  ne'er  symboled  a  sweeter  mind, 
Or  a  soul  whose  needle  could  dip  more  true 

To  Heaven  than  hers,  or  a  heart  more  kind; 
And  still  the  eyes  of  the  world  are  blind — 
And,  0,  here  cometh  a  whirl  of  wind! 

God,  help  her  see  through  the  flying  fold 

Of  snows,  so  cold! 

How  rise  the  drear  and  gathering  drifts! 
And  each,  like  a  living  ghost,  uplifts 

As  though  it  reached  for  the  cold  embrace 


The  Child  of  Woe  117 

Of  the  upper  drift,  that  wails  and  sifts 
Down  chillingly  into  her  whitened  face ! 

How  fast  it  covers  the  latest  trace 

Of  her  freezing  feet,  as,  pace  by  pace, 
She  strives  on,  hugging  the  scanty  fold, 

Cold,  so  cold! 

And  no  one  offers  a  guiding  hand 
To  help  her  over  the  whitened  sand, 

As  fair  lights  out  of  the  windows  gleam 
Where  all  within  is  a  tropic  land — 

Ah !   would  it  a  want  of  charity  seem 
Should  she,  adrift  with  the  snowy  stream, 
Half-way  think  and  half-way  dream 

That  the  hearts  and  hands  that  have  the  gold 

Are  cold,  0!  cold? 

0,  me !   what  a  homeless  waif  of  woes ! 
Sailing  alone  on  a  sea  of  snows, 

Her  yearning  voice  so  frail  that  none 
Will  listen  at  all,  and  no  one  knows 

Its  cry  is  meant  for  a  signal  gun! 
So  the  strong  go  by  her  one  by  one — 
No  wonder,  then,  as  she  tosses  on, 

She  sighs,  a-clutching  her  scanty  fold, 

"The  World  is  cold!" 

And,  0 !  as  she  goes,  will  no  one  come 
And  make  in  his  heart  an  inch  of  room? 

And  warm  her  cheek  with  a  Christian  tear? 
And  take  her  out  of  the  snowy  gloom? — 

What  a  pitiful  call  for  a  bit  of  cheer! 
0!  how  can  a  Christian  help  but  hear? 
Then  send  her  to  me,  for,  0 !  I  fear 

No  one  will  know,  till  a  snowy  fold 

Winds  her — cold! 


118  My  Par- Away 

MY  FAR-AWAY. 
I. 

0  link  of  love !    0  lifted  eye, 

Impassioned  girl,  my  "Far- Away!" 
Expectant  song  of  "by-and-by," 

Glad  yester-morn  but  sad  to-day! 
My  soul  stands  up  and  looks  afar 
And  trembles  like  a  straying  ,star 
And  reaches  back,  with  eyes  ajar, 
To  thee,  my  joy,  my  "Far-away." 

II. 

0  voice,  a-reel  with  wines  of  song 

More  fond  and  fine  than  foam  or  spray 
That  can  from  vines  of  earth  be  wrung, 

Sing  marches  for  my  feet  to  stray 
Somewhere  that  sin  may  not  betide, 
And  streams  of  youthful  thought  beside — 
Beside  thy  ,soul  temptation-tried 
And  found  so  true,  my  "Far-away!" 

III. 

0  eyes,  beneath  another  sky, 

Look  up  now,  while  I  look,  and  pray! 

1  am  not  gone  so  far  but  I 

Can  catch  the  kind  and  tender  ray! 
There  is  a  wire  from  me  to  thee 
By  way  of  Heav'n — I  bow  my  knee — 
Glad  eyes  of  love,  shine  o'er  to  me 
By  way  of  Heav'n,  my  "Far-away!" 

IV. 

0  distant  heart,  beat  on!    0  beat, 
And  beat  thy  warm  and  darling  May! 


Telouchkine  119 

Half  way  to  thee  we  seem  to  meet, 

And  heart  to  heart  we  seem  to  lay. 
I  feel  the  throb  of  thine,  I  know, 
By  way  of  Him  who  sayeth,  "Lo! 
I'm  with  you  always!" — Angel,  so 
I  seem  with  thee,  my  " Far- Away!" 


TELOUCHKINE. 

I. 

The  spire  of  great  " Saint  Peter's  and  St.  Paul's, 

Lost  like  a  needle  in  the  purple  skies, 

Stood  gleaming  in  the  centuries  of  light 

And  dwindled,  o'er  Slavonic,  Titan  walls 

Of  grand  Saint  Petersburg,  to  fairy  size, 

A  gold-hued  world  poised  on  its  airy  height; 

And  on  this  poised  unpeopled-planet  stood 

A  steadfast  angel,  emblem  of  the  good, 

Enshielded  blue  with  heaven's  blue  amplitude. 

II. 

Now,  by  the  driving  tempests  of  the  skies 
And  stealing  frosts  and  feathery  snowy  feet, 
It  leans  to  fall,  wrhile  men,  who  creep  below 
Like  insects,  upward  gaze  with  dust-small  eyes 
(While  aspirations  drag  the  stony  street 
By  leaden  fears,  and  over  ever  go 
The  silvery  clouds  that  kiss  the  angel's  face), 
And  idly  speculate,  and,  skeptic,  trace 
The  gulf  impassable  of  towering  space! 

m. 

But  Telouchkine,  a  tzar  uncrowned,  gazed 
The  airy  ocean  thro',  but  not,  as  they, 


120  Telouchkine 

With  fruitless  wondering  and  helpless  thought: 

His  thoughts  in  brilliant  upward  steppings  blazed — 

A  vaulting  wonder-deed,  heroic  way 

To  reach  the  falling  angel!    Thus  he  wrought 

A  restoration  for  the  seraph  King, 

Exalted  emblem  of  man's  primal  spring, 

The  Eden  seraph  now  with  failing  wing. 

IV. 

He  clomb  the  spire ! — The  shouts  of  surging  specks 
Came  floating  up  in  faint  far  murmurings 
When  Telouchkine  now  by  the  angel  stood! 
He  scanning  downward — upward — little  recks 
If  he  be  nearer  those  sweet  pearled  strings 
That  star  the  blue  at  noonday  solitude 
To  one  so  skyey  deep !     Brave  Telouchkine ! 
A  plain-clad  king  with  crown  more  superfine 
That  Inca's  gold  and  Afric's  diamond  mine. 

V. 

For  he  alone  dare  win  its  lofty  gleam 
Redeeming  Russia's  angel  clothed  with  gold: — • 
'Twas  thus  with  man;  for  halting  wisdom  tried, 
And  haughty  folly,  ages  to  redeem 
The  ''angel  in  us"  from  its  ruin  old. 
'Twas  unavailing  folly's  shallow-eyed 
And  peering  throngs  around  the  Titan  wall, 
Till  Christ  came  down  and,  crowned  King  of  All, 
This  "Angel  in  us"  saved  from  endless  fall! 


TALES 

INTRODUCTORY 

LIFE— A   TALE. 

A  tale  is  but  breath, 

Yet  life  is  a  tale 
Borne  over  by  death, 

And  told  in  a  wail, 
Or  in  sweetness,  hereafter. 

Our  lives  are  but  tales 

Told  in  accents  of  pathos 
Of  loves  under  veils — 

Told  in  burnings  of  passion, 
In  tempests  of  wails, 

In  flashes  of  evil, 
In  songs,  in  curses — 

In  all,  every  whit, 
Lives  are  tales! 


DRIVEN  FROM  EDEN. 
Tale  of  a  Pioneer. 

Time  is  a  heartless  intruder, 
That  ruthlessly  trudges  behind  one, 
And  tramples  and  crushes  to  splinters 
The  painted  glass-figures  of  fancy — 
The  castles  in  Spain  of  the  dreamer, 
In  youth  and  the  budding  of  manhood 


122  Driven  from  Eden 

So  how  can  I  gather  a  story 

To-day  out  of  glittering  fragments, 

Once  perfect  and  brilliant  of  color 

In  youth,  when  the  earlier  fancies 

Lay  fairer  than  roses  around  me? 

Now  dim  are  the  dreams  of  my  childhood, 

And  faded  the  follies  of  love-days. 

I. 

Far  back  lie  the  realms  of  my  childhood, 
Divine  with  the  promise  of  love-days, 
In  the  meadowrs  that  one  of  the  poets 
Pronounced,  in  his  ecstasy,  Eden — 
Where  tides  of  the  beautiful  grasses 
Of  prairies,  with  glorified  blossoms, 
Shook  hands  with  the  tides  of  the  waters, 
And  kissed  to  the  kiss  of  Vermilion — 
There  prairies  are  dotted  with  timber, 
As  islands  deep-green  in  the  ocean: 
'Twas  there  in  the  breeze  and  the  shadow 
Of  one  of  those  islands  of  forest 
She  dwelt,  who  was  queen  of  all  beauty, 
Eulalie,  the  pride  of  Vermilion. 

Birds  floated  around  and  above  her 
And  swung  on  their  pinions  of  purple, 
And  all  the  rich  hues  under  heaven; 
They  chirped  on  the  branches  a  message 
Of  "peace  to  Eulalie!"  and  freighted 
The  air  with  their  languorous  love-lays. 
The  meadow-larks  ,swayed,  at  a  distance, 
On  stems  of  the  riotous  dock-weeds. 
'Twas  peace  in  the  sound  of  the  breezes, 
And  peace  in  the  caroling  voices 
Of  birds  in  the  peace  of  the  tree-tops. 
'Twas  peace  in  the  whispering  grasses; 
And  delicate  voices  of  waters 
Sang  peace,  to  the  lulling  of  lilies 


Driven  from  Eden  123 

Whose  peace  was  the  charm  of  their  petals. 
'Twas  peace  unexplored  in  the  star-lands; 
With  only  a  breach  of  their  promise 
Of  peace,  as  was  seen  in  the  falling 
Of  a  meteor  at  eve,  as  if  sorrow 
Had  crept  into  loves  of  the  planets, 
And  so,  now  and  then  in  the  twilight 
A  star  fell  from  out  of  the  cluster 
Down  to  night  of  eternal  despairing! — 
'Twas  peace  in  the  voices  of  Nature. 
'Twas  peace  in  the  night  and  the  morning, 
And  peace  all  the  day  and  the  even. 
And  peace  is  the  essence  of  beauty. 
Peace,  white-armed,  sweet  peace  is  the  goddess 
That  soars  o'er  the  passions  that  rend  us — 
That  deadens  the  spirit  of  hatred — 
Of  jealousy,  envy,  ambition! 
Yea,  peace,  that  maketh  contentment ! 
Such  peace  was  in  soul  of  Eulalie, 
Whose  prayer  was,  "May  God's  peace  be  with 
you." 

I  dwelt  on  the  river  Vermilion, 
Not  far  from  the  home  of  Eulalie — 
0  why  should  my  spirit  awaken, 
To  follow  the  feet  of  an  angel? 
Then  toss  on  its  pillow  of  passion? 
My  love  was  as  pure  as  the  heavens, 
And  true  as  its  blueness  of  beauty. 
But  I  was  devoid  of  the  graces 
And  ways  that  should  win  her  affection. 
My  gait  was  uncouth;  and  uncomely 
My  form;  and  the  money  to  cover, 
My  many  defects  still  was  lacking. 
What  charm  hid  in  dusky  complexion? 
Or  coarse  hair,  as  straight  as  the  rushes? 
Then  why  should  my  spirit  awaken 
To  toss  on  its  pillow  of  passion? 
Ah !  was  it,  as  coldly  was  told  me 


124  Driven  from  Eden 

By  one  who  had  power  to  do  evil, 
Because  (it  was  false  as  the  wine-cup)  ! 
I  saw  through  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer! 
But  she,  she  was  sweet  as  the  blossoms, 
As  pure  as  the  buds  of  the  lilies 
Caressing  the  flow  of  Vermilion. 
The  smiling,  that  chased  back  her  laughter, 
Rippled  like  the  brook ;  and  it  tinted 
Her  features,  expressive  as  twilight 
Doth  chase  down  the  sunset  and  tinteth 
The  skies  from  which  Helios  retreated! 
Alas!    now  to  find  that  my  fancy 
Is  not  as  it  was;  and  that  somehow, 
My  power  of  impassioned  expression 
Is  not  as  it  was  in  those  love-days! 
Alas!    that  the  eyes  of  Eulalie, — 
Yea,  all  her  enrapturing  beauties 
Have  faded  so  far  into  distance; 
They  are  dim  through  the  mists  of  the  moun 
tains 

Of  pleasure — are  dim  and  uncertain 
Thro'  smoke  of  the  desolate  valleys 
Of  humiliation  and  sorrows! 
My  words  are  grown  heavy  as  iron. 
Muse !   give  me  the  words  that  are  lacking 
To  tell  what  I  saw  in  Eulalie, 
So  glorified  fair  with  the  touches 
Of  love  from  the  heart  of — a  dreamer? 
But,  to-day  the  dear  view  is  uncertain, 
Her  form  interchanges  with  others, 
Who  thrust  their  dim  faces  between  us, 
And  smile  as  they  claim  recognition! 
Yes,  to-day,  her  dear  voice  is  uncertain, 
And  comes  like  an  echo  of  echo ! 
It  paineth  me  sore  to  distinguish 
Her  voice  from  the  voices  of  many 
That  come  from  their  shadow  of  waiting, 
And  call,  through  an  ocean  of  distance, 
And  claim — do  they  get  it? — remembrance. 
Tell  me  why  war  these  opposite  forces, 


Driven  from  Eden  125 

Opposing  all  goodness  by  evil — 
Opposing  the  sweet  by  the  bitter? 

How  young,  yet  how  ardent  are  lovers! 

Love  wakens  the  chords  in  some  spirits, 

That  quiver,  with  flashes  resplendent, 

And  sound  in  a  lyric  of  beauty, 

Till  ending  in  music  of  heaven; 

In  some,  tune  is  wakened  in  sweetness, 

To  die  in  harsh  iteration 

Of  tunes  that  are  dirges  to  pleasure! — 


Come  closer;  my  voice,  it  grows  weaker — 

Come  closer,  and  listen;  for  somehow, 

Now  faces  and  voices  that  mingled 

And  made  my  remembrance  uncertain 

Are  clear  for  the  moment  to  mem'ry — 

And,  somehow,  the  mists  of  these  mountains 

Of  pleasure,  the  smoke  in  the  valleys 

Of  humiliation  and  sorrows 

Are  breaking  away,  and  my  fancies 

Shine  clear  on  the  banks  of  Vermilion! 

I  see  now  the  first  of  life  plainly; 

'Tis  strange  that  the  commonest  trifle, 

Sometimes,  is  remembered  for  ages, 

While  deeds  we  call  great  are  forgotten! — 

I  went  to  the  home  of  Eulalie; 

I  went  in  my  youth  burning  blushes — 

And,  Oh!  with  a  sort  of  foreboding! 

We  met ;  and  I  knew,  by  the  clinging 

Of  lips  and  their  passionate  pulses, 

And  more  by  the  wonderful  kindness 

That  shone  in  her  eyes,  who  was  victor. 

We  wooed  on  the  banks  of  Vermilion. 
We  called  to  the  fish  in  the  river 
Alluring  them  up  to  the  margin. 
The  birds  to  the  grounds  of  enchantment 


126  Driven  from  Eden 

Came  down — to  the  margin  of  waters; 
And  fishes  came  up  to  the  lilies, 
So  charmed  by  the  rapturous  singing. 
Love  shown  in  the  blush  o'  the  roses! 
'Twas  fair  in  the  cups  o'  the  lilies! 
Love  caroled  from  bills  o'  the  singers, 
'Twas  sweet  in  the  waters  of  crystal! 
0  love,  in  the  dew  o'  the  morning, 
And  soft  in  the  flow  o'  the  grasses! 
0  love,  in  the  cloud  and  the  even, 
That  blushed  to  the  color  of  crimson ! 
0  love,  in  the  gleaming  of  Venus, 
And  mild  in  the  paleness  of  Luna !    . 
0  love,  in  the  soul  o'  the  woman 
Who  loved  so  the  love  of  "a  dreamer !" 

II. 

0  God!   oppositions  of  forces! 
They  make  the  wild,  turbulent  plunging 
Of  torrents  and  swirling  tornadoes! 
The  maiden  saw  not  as  her  parents. 
They  said  I  was  "only  a  dreamer!" 
.Because — Oh,  when  I  remember, 
My  old,  timeworn  spirit  doth  tremble 
Again  with  a  storm  of  rebellion! — 
Because  I  had  loftier  yearnings 
Than  cramping  all  thoughts  to  the  getting 
Of  money  by  tricks  of  the  trader — 
Because  I  unburdened  my  spirit 
Of  some  of  its  plungings  of  passion, 
And  tenderer  play  of  emotions, 
In  figures  of  speech  and  in  sonnets, 
They  said  to  me,  cold  as  the  iceberg : 
"Foolish  youth,  you  are  only  a  dreamer. 
Do  you  deem  the  invention  of  figures 
Of  speech  and  of  amorous  verses 
Is  enough  for  the  fairest  of  women? 
Why,  you  are  as  clumsy  as  dock-leaves, 


Driven  from  Eden  127 

While  she  is  as  graceful  as  lilies — 

Shall  lilies  lock  arms  with  the  dock-leaves?" 

I  ventured  to  answer,  not  mildly: 
"Nay,  nay!  but  the  dock,  so  uncomely 
Yet  strong,  may  lean  over  the  lily, 
Protecting  from  sun  and  the  tempest!" 

Far  better  I  never  had  spoken! 
For  red  as  the  raging  of  wine-cups, 
He  cried:     "Let  the  bottom  be  riven 
From  under  the  dashing  Vermilion! 
Let  clouds  that  are  red  in  the  even 
Turn  dark  as  your  tawny  complexion! 
If  ever  so  clumsy  a  dreamer, 
Unpolished,  shall  wed  my  Eulalie ! 
You  may  level  the  loftiest  mountain, 
You  may  dry  up  the  springs  of  the  ocean, 
But 'this  lies  beyond  your  endeavor — 
Go  ! — go  from  her  future  existence  ! ' ' 

III. 

Yea,  lives  may  begin  soaring  upward 

Delighting  a  thousand  beholders, 

As  rings  rise  in  smoke  toward  the  sunbeams — 

Ascending,  so  soon  to  be  broken — 

To  be  broken,  as  rings  of  our  smoking 

Are  broken  on  merciless  tree-tops: 

Yea,  hearts  may  turn  sad,  until  ripples 

Of  gayness  sink  dead  'neath  the  waters 

And  the  surface  that  rippled  in  sunshine 

Lies  turbid  o'er  bodies  of  dead  men. 

But  a  will  that  is  utterly  broken 

Or  bent  for  the  arrows  of  curses, 

While  the  heart  still  unbroken  is  glowing 

With  rashness  and  poisonous  passions 

Is  the  worst  of  all  bitterest  sorrows. 

There  are  wills  that  are  stronger  than  iron, 


128  Driven  from  Eden 

But  more  may  be  bended  as  pewter — 
There  are  wills  with  a  seeming  of  beauty, 
But  godless  as  glasses  of  Bacchus ; 
There  are  wills  that  can  never  be  broken, 
But  wound,  as  a  twine  on  the  finger. 
Why  chant  to  the  hurrying  people? 
"Why  clang  to  the  pitiless  pavement 
Steps  driven  by  wills  that  are  stormy? 
A  sound  in  the  heart  of  the  marble 
Rings  back,  "it  is  resolute  battle — 
Stern  war  with  the  all  that  ennobles!" 
And  big  lights  that  gleam  in  the  windows 
Of  men  of  the  world,  how  they  glimmer! 
1  *  We  hate  thee  !     we  hate  the  emotions, 
The  yearnings  and  brazen  ambitions 
Of  humble  men,  daring  to  battle 
For  thrones  of  exalted  opinions 
And  characters  grander  than  temples!" 

IV. 

We  parted — as  others  have  parted; 
And  Earth  put  on  garments  of  mourning. 
She  said,  as  I  turned  to  go  from  her: 
"Searle,  stand  like  a  man!     It  is  sorrow 
That  bridges  the  way  to  the  fullness 
Of  power  and  the  goal  of  our  being ! 
Searle,  go !  you  are  going  forever ! 
I  shall  follow  your  footprints,  aye,  always; — 
Shall  glide  like  a  shadow  in  mourning, 
Along  the  forsaken  Vermilion, 
Forsaken  of  you — and  its  sweetness. 
Be    strong — love,    farewell!" — Thus    she    van 
ished, — 

As  pale  as  the  snow  in  the  mountains. 
To  me  the  delights  of  Vermilion 
Turned  dead  as  the  rocks  of  the  desert — • 
Turned  dead  as  our  hopes;  and  an  angel 
In  black  led  me  out  of  the  valley, 


The  Ishmaelite  129 

And  swung  a  sword  over  the  gate-way. 
I  crushed  with  the  hammer  of  will-power, 
The  thing  we  call  "lonely!"  and  turning 
I  set  my  face  westward  from  Eden. 


THE  ISHMAELITE. 
I. 

A  cloud  to  east  in  upper  air 

Was  dipping  from  the  boiling  sea 
Her  golden  waves.     It  bent  its  knee 

And  dipped,  and  lifting,  unaware, 

Some  oversplashed  its  cup  and  fell 
And  flashed  afar  a  lightning  flash, 

And  sounded  with  the  distant  swell 
Of  thunder,  with  its  hoarse-toned  plash. 

II. 

"Wild  Bill"  and  I  'mid  seas  of  grass — 
And  I  a  roaming  rhymer,  then, 
And  he  a  wildest  waif  of  men — 

He,  dreaming  of  a  shattered  glass 

Of  golden  beauty,  in  the  days 
When  love  and  confidence,  a-bloom, 

Lined  all  his  heart's  perfumed  ways, 
Now  sered  to  wasted  ways  of  gloom. 

III. 

"0  gold-eyed  stars!"  Wild  Bill  began, 

"That  smile  one  thing  and  wink  another 
(In  this  far,  man  is  false-eyed  brother), 
If  men  have  found  a  fellowman 
The  world  may  trust,  as  trusting  woman, — 


130  The  Ishmaelite 

That  all  may  trust  in  suns  or  thunders, 
I'll  waive  my  strife  and  turn  to  human, 
And  add  one  to  the  seven  wonders. 

IV. 

"Men  say  I  spurn  the  very  thought 
Of  any  throbs  of  heart  that  beat 
What  woman's  tongue  pronounces  sweet. 

They  may  not  see  the  sombre  spot, 

Encased  in  rocky,  froward  souls, 

Where  love  may  weep  in  tears  of  weakness- 

Ours  woe  controlled,  theirs  joy  controls; 
Their  love  a  boon,  and  ours  a  bleakness. 

V. 

"Aye,  you  are  young;  and  poets  know 
The  meaning  of  a  plaintive  story — 
Can  drop  tears  on  a  hand,  though  .gory 

And  desperate — well  be  it  so, — 

I  laugh  with  those  who  jest  at  love, 
And  build  a  room  more,  with  the  rest; 

Yet,  deep  within,  the  soul  will  move 
With  curses  at  the  hollow  jest. 

VI. 

"If,  in  some  mood  of  inspiration, 
You  thrust  my  secret  into  rhyme, 
I  charge  you  keep  it  until  Time 

Shall  fix  my  grave  for  decoration. 

It  may  be  turned  to  fruitful  warning 
To  whom  would  go  the  way  I've  gone — 

May  save  my  memory  some  its  scorning, 
When  all  but  this  is  overgrown. 

VII. 

"My  distant  Mary  was  a  blonde, 
A  pale  face  mellowed  by  some  care 


The  Ishmaelite  131 

Unusual,  so  finely  fair. 
And  I,  somehow,  have  never  found 
A  face,  an  eye,  or  sunny  hair, 

A  heart,  a  head,  or  limbs,  or  breast, 
Or  love,  or  goodness  could  compare 

With  hers,  divinest,  loveliest! 

VIII. 

"The  birds  were  thicker  in  the  trees, 

And  sat  and  twittered  unafraid 

When  she  was  there ;  and,  when  she  prayed, 
All  Nature  seemed  upon  its  knees ; 
And  rich  bees,  overladen,  came 

And  clustered  on  her  clasping  hands; 
And  tall-topt  flowers,  with  hearts  aflame, 

Tipped  to  her  cheeks  as  charmed  wands. 

IX. 

"Her  song  was  like  the  melody 

Poured  liquidly  along  the  keys 

Of  some  piano  in  the  skies — 
Like  some  angelic  symphony 
That  glideth,  on  its  wings  of  bliss, 

Along  the  glittering  'glassy  sea;' 
For  nothing  bears  so  pure  a  kiss 

Of  Heaven  as  music's  melody. 

X. 

"She  sang  one  time — and,  Oh!  her  voice! — 

While  shining  with  a  glance  divine 

Her  blue-blue  eyes  did  overshine 
The  splendor  of  the  sky  apoise ! 
Rude  bearded  men  look  up  and  weep, 

And  rough  brown  hands  and  brawny  arms 
Lift  up  and  swing,  and  young  folks  leap, 

Run  wild  at  its  melodious  charms. — 


132  The  Ishmaelite 

XI. 

"And  (as  the  tides  rush  to  the  moon), 

A  thousand  waking  sympathies 

Rush  up  to  kiss  her  melting  eyes! 
And  strong  men,  rising  one  by  one, 
Unthinking,  crowd  and  weep  and  lean 

Like  leaning  ships;  and  children  shout 
And  mingle  in  the  magnet  scene, 

And  white-haired  men  bow  heads  devout. 

XII. 

"Then  I  was  but  a  lad,  and  yet 

Was  wise  in  feelings  that  to  me 

Were  more  than  all  beside;  and  she, 
Too  wise  and  faithful  to  forget. — 
Some  said:  'But  she  is  rich  in  purse, 

And  soon  will  scorn  him,  poor  and  humble  !'- 
God!    crush  that  heart-consuming  curse, 

That  block  of  gold  o'er  which  fools  stumble! 

XIII. 

"Be  sure  I  was  not  rich;  but  then 

I  had  a  turn  of  mind  that  many 

Count  better  than  a  soulless  penny — 
A  buoyant  soul  that  most  of  men 
Would  give  a  fortune  to  possess. 

They  called  me  'wild' — I  knew  not  why; 
But  then  I  made  this  'off-hand'  guess: 

To  make  me  odious  in  her  eye ! 

XIV. 

"Thank  God,  I  was  not  dull  or  tame; 
For  Mary  could  not  love  a  drone, 
Nor  worship  hearts  of  gold  or  stone — 

I  was  not  wild  nor  tame,  I  claim. 

Could  God  then  love  me  aught  the  less, 
Because  I  claimed  the  right  of  motion? 


The  Ishmaelite  133 

There  was  no  form  'twixt  heart  and  cross, 
Nor  stupidness  in  my  devotion. 

XV. 

"But  still  they  called  me  'wild,'  the  same — 
Ah!  then  it  made  we  weep:  such  tears 
Have  long  since  perished  with  the  years — 

I  glory  in  the  ruffian  name. 


One  Rudolph  came,  a  moneyed  drone, 
Who  claimed  (by  right  of  unearned  gold 

And  by  the  right  that  parents  own) 
Their  offered  child — a  slave  is  sold! 

XVI. 

"Her  parents  loved  him  for  his  riches, 
And  tried  to  sell  her  to  a  drone — 
1  She  asked  for  bread ;  they  gave  a  stone ! ' 

They  sewed  a  veil  with  golden  stitches, 

And  thought  to  hide  from  her  the  boy 
Whose  cupid  had  no  golden  arrow — 

They  thought  a  little  golden  toy 

Would  turn  her  from  her  bitter  sorrow. 

XVII. 

"Now,  what  if  minted  silver  shine 
And  rattle  in  the  purse  and  chink 
In  chests  chained  down  by  diamond  link? 
What  if  the  burden  of  a  mine 
Of  minted  gold  should  pouch  and  weigh 

One's  pockets,  till  the  'law'  would  pass 
And  wink,  and  maidens  droop,  and  say, 
'How  rich!  how  grand!'— yet  sad,  alas! 


134  The  Ishmaelite 

XVIII. 

"Yea,  what  of  silver-glancing  glint? 

And  what  of  gold  and  glowing  gilt? 

And  palaces  that  tower  and  tilt 
O'er  wide-spread  lands  afar  a-tint 
With  harvest  wealth — that  tower  a-top 

This  little  tilting,  toppling  earth? 
All  these  were  but  a  trifling  drop 

To  satisfy  a  world  of  dearth. 

XIX. 

"For  what  were  these  if  one  must  miss 

The  only  face,  the  only  form, 

The  only  breast  or  clasping  arm, 
The  only  elevating  kiss, 
The  only  hand  whose  press  or  touch 

Could  raise  the  dead  heart  or  arouse 
One  slumbering  joy — the  only  such 

To  heal  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  bows? 

XX. 

"To  cease  to  love  too  saintly  true, 

Too  fond  to  ever  disobey 

Parental  will,  too  frail  to  say: 
'I  will  not  wed,  and  live  to  rue!' 
And  so — Alas! — hold,  till  I  quiet 

This  stormy  motion  in  my  breast — 
This  damned  lunging  spirit-riot 

Of  recollection — then  the  rest! 

XXI. 

"The  pallor  of  my  evil  star, 

Perhaps,  as  cold,  wreird  light  in  dreams, 
Has  cast  its  hue  in  pallid  streams 
Before  you,  and  its  lines  afar 
You  follow,  till  your  thoughts  unveil 


The  Ishmaelite  135 

The  bitter  truths  I  strive  to  tell — 
At  which  the  wildest  soul  will  quail, 
As  demons  at  the  wails  of  hell. 

XXII. 

'What  God  has  joined!'    Those  words  were  mad 
dest. 

Had  she  been  glad  by  his  caress, 

When  wed,  my  heart  had  murmured:    *  Bless 
The  saintly  flower !  '—But,  oh,  the  saddest, 
I  saw  her  when  the  year  had  flown, 

A  shadow  then,  and  sorrow-veiled, 
By  walks  that  youth  with  joy  had  strown — 

They  feigned  they  knew  not  why  she  failed. 

XXIII. 

"Swift  passed  another  year;  and  I 
(As  was  my  way  since  she  was  wed), 
Went  wandering  (with  the  stars  o'erhead), 

Where  holy  water  glimmered  by — 

The  deep  and  glinting  lake,  where  we 
Had  both  breathed  wishes  up  to  God, 

And  I  to  her,  and  she  to  me — 

Now  one  lone  flower  bloomed  on  the  sod — 


XXIV. 

"One  marvelous,  symbolic  flower; 

Too  delicate  to  stand  alone, 

It  leaned  against  a  heartless  stone, 
Yet  exercised  its  fainting  power 
In  breathing  perfumed  prayers  to  me. — 

Just  then  I  started,  for  I  felt 
Some  feeling  pull  me  to  my  knee ! — 

I  looked !   the  flower  had  turned  to  wilt ! 


136  The  Ishmaelite 

XXV. 

"A  thousand  longings,  resurrected, 
Eushed  to  the  lake! — I  cast  my  eyes 
Upon  its  wave-reflected  skies! — 

Two  hands  played  with  two  stars,  reflected; 

One  pale  breast  cooled  upon  the  lake; 
One  white  face  kissed  the  floating  moon! — 

I  called ! — the  sleeper  would  not  wake ! — 
I  cried  out  in  the  night — alone ! 

XXVI. 

"I  plunged  into  the  star-strewn  lake! — 

I  clutched — 'twas  she!     0  silent  Mary! 

Dead  on  the  waters  solitary! 
The  ripples  on  the  lake-shore  break; 
But  red  heart-surges  break  and  toss 

Her  soul  on  billows,  till  the  child 
Through  death  is  lifted  from  her  cross, 

While  I,  tossed  woeward — yea,  am  wild! 

XXVII. 

"0  red-winged  life!  with  bloody  beak 
Scouring  the  wild  plains  of  my  heart 
To  catch  prey  for  the  hungry  mart 

Of  misery!    I  was  not  weak: 

I  paid  them  for  their  godless  sneers — 
No  matter  how. — I  made  them  feel 

The  reflux  of  my  youthful  tears 

Drop  back  on  them  like  frozen  steel. ' ' 


Since  this  was  said,  his  tongue  is  dumb. 

His  grave  is  fixed — for  decoration? 

Or,  for  neglect,  or  desecration? 
I  know  not  if  a  friend  has  come 
With  flowers,  or  spray  of  "live-forever," 


Tola  137 

To  honor  this  strange  Ishmaelite: 
If  so,  I  say,  God  bless  the  giver! 
This  is  my  flower,  this  song  I  write. 

He  died  (some  say,  a  desperado) 

The  steadiest  nerved — the  coolest  man 

That  ever  set  foot  on  the  plain — 
The  Hero  of  the  Estacado. 
Ah !  dare  we  hope,  he  found  the  flower 

That  melted  by  the  heartless  stone — 
And  that,  through  God's  eternal  hour, 

He  is  not  "wild,"  and  not  alone? 


IOLA. 

lola  blushed  and  dropped  her  head, 

And  fondled  my  hand,  and  teased,  and  said: 

"Now  tell  me  the  tale  you  used  to,  when 

I  was  a  laughing  girl,  as  then 

You  told  me,  swinging  over  the  gate, 

Forgetting  the  hour  was  growing  late." 

And  so  I  smiled,  as  I  raised  her  head, 

And  chucked  her  under  the  chin,  and  said: 

"The  Plains  were  as  wide  as  the  widest  sea; 

And  the  top  was  alive  With  a  toss  of  glee 

The  whole  year  through ;  and  the  houses  stood 

As  few  as  ships  on  the  ocean  flood — 

'Twas  there  I  dwelt  with  the  bride  whose  eyes 

Were  violet,  black,  nor  the  color  of  skies, 

But  a  beautiful  color,  nor  wild,  nor  tame, 

A  color  that  never  has  found  a  name. 

The  land  was  as  broad  as  the  broadest  main 

Forever  a-surge — Again  and  again 

The  waves  were  green,  with  a  painted  foam; 

And  again  and  again,  as  the  dry  winds  came 


138  lola 

In  the  heated  August,  and  the  longing 

Saw  never  a  cloud,  in  the  flushing  sky 

The  size  of  a  hand,  has  the  green  turned  gray, 

And  again  and  again  has  the  gray  grass  spray, 

As  the  Indian  summer  sun  looked  down, 

Turned  from  a  gray  to  a  deader  brown. 

"One  time  we  stood  and  the  stern  round  sun, 
When  the  east  was  red  and  the  west  was  dun, 
Rose  burning  so  hot  that  the  grasses'  spires 
With  dew-tips  tossing  like  tongues  of  fires, 
Strung  off  to  the  east  as  a  caravan 
Of  pilgrims  clad  in  flame,  and  ran 
And  swung  their  arms,  and,  one  by  one, 
Seemed  pouring  into  the  templed  sun. 

"Then,  as  the  east  was  turning  red, 
The  upper  heavens  turned  dun  and  dead; 
And,  low  in  the  west  and  pinned  to  land, 
Flowed  up  two  strips  of  a  rainbow  band, 
And  torn  and  bloody  and  blue,  alack! 
And  caught  in  a  cloud  of  green-tinged  black. 

And  ever  then,  as  the  bow  shone  brighter, 
The  tint  to  the  orient  grew  lighter 
And  less  and  less,  as  a  dying  crater, 
And   the    green-tinged    black    grew    darker    and 
greater. 

The  wind  kept  stopping,  then  starting  again, 
And  looking  a-west  and  pulling  the  rein 
To  rest  his  steed  till  the  cloud  should  come, 
When,  spurring  his  steed  in  the  stormy  gloom, 
High  o'er  his  tangled  and  dusty  mane 
He  would  swing  his  hands  and  swoop  the  plain 
And  shout  and  sing  till  the  prairies  ring 
And  the  frightened  grasses  drop  and  cling 
To  the  sounding  ground  a-quail  with  thunder! — 
And  then,  as  we  looked,  the  sun  wrent  under. 

"Such  a  terrible  sky,  on  a  rain-bowed  morning 
Is  our,  as  well  as  a  sailor's  warning!' 
She  said,  as  she  pressed  her  cheek  to  mine, 
And  her  chestnut  hair  did  kiss  and  twine 


lola  139 

And  mingle  with  mine.    Now,  clasping  her, 
I  shuddered  to  feel  her  bosom  stir 
With  a  beat  it  never  had  beaten  before. 
I  looked  in  her  face — a  tear  fell  o'er 
My  darling 's  cheek ! — for  she,  you  know 
Was  young  as  a  girl,  as  yet,  and  so 
I  called  her  my  'darling'  and  'girl,'  'tis  true; 
But  you  are  older  than  she,  and  you 
Are  prouder  and  bolder  than  she;  and  I 
Somehow  could  never,  I  know  not  why, 
Call  you  the  same  as  her — however, 
My  love  for  you  is  strong  as  a  river — 
And  so,  if  I  never  should  give  you  the  name 
That  I  gave  to  her,  it  is  all  the  same. 

"Then  a  terrible  rush  of  wind  came  on. 
Whirling  the  dust,  and  then — was  gone. 
Not  a  single  mote  of  the  world  in  motion! — 
Still  as  a  heart  in  last  devotion! 

"The  black  o'erhead  then  flashed  with  fire — 
And  the  stillness  startled  as  if  a  lyre, 
Whose  wires  hung  spanning  the  universe, 
Were  struck  to  mutter  a  mighty  curse ! 
The  world  awoke,  with  a  pealing  noise, 
And  startled  and  shook,  as  a  mote,  a-poise, 
Would  shiver  upon  a  quivering  thread ! 
Scarcely  the  stunning  sound  was  dead, 
When  the  sudden  rush  of  a  fiery  flood 
Streamed  over  the  heavens.     I  started — stood! — 
And  a  burning  bullet,  a  blazing  ball, 
Shot  down  from  the  battery  clouds,  where  wall 
On  wall  is  set  with  cannon  to  war 
The  world  below — fell  like  a  star — 
Flew  red  and  swift,  and  a  scented  heat 
Followed  the  trail  of  its  flashing  feet! 
And,  hissing  by,  as  a  heated  dart, 
Its  breath  I  feel — I  cling — I  start — 
But — never  a  breath  again,  and  never 
Another  word,  from  her  lips  forever!" 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

MONEY. 
From  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

There  is  one  song,  if  sung,  that  is  matter  of  fact; 

I've  been  the  land  over — found  truth  in  a  friend. 

And  know  how  sweet  love  is,  and  know  it  exact — 

How    sweet   the    applause    of   the    lines   I   have 

penned ; 

But  of  all  that  is  sweet  and  of  all  that  is  sunny, 
'Tis  the  best,  0  my  friends,  to  have  "plenty  of 
money ! ' ' 

There's  a  smile  from  the  great  and  a  bow  from  the 

common, 

And  kisses  and  pressure  of  hands  that  are  warm, 
And  leaning  of  bosoms  of  beautiful  women, 

And  compliments  thicker  than  hail  in  a  storm — 
All  the  words  of  the  world,  they  are  sweeter  than 

honey, 

If    a    man,    0    my    friends,    but    has    "plenty    of 
money ' '  I 

"Away  with  despair!  here's  a  drink  to  the  many!" 
He   sings;   and   the   many   cry:   "Health   to  the 
one!" 

"A  health  to  my  Mary,  my  Lucy,  my  Jennie!" 
He  drinks  to  them  all,  with  affection  for  none. 

This  is  no  sin  for  him,  it  is  simply  "so  funny!" 

For  he,  0  my  friends,  he  has  "plenty  of  money!" 

So  I  say,  if  you  wish  to  sail  smooth  o  'er  the  waters 
Of  life,  why,  see  that  you  gather  the  pennies ; 


Growing  Old  141 

And  men  will  be  friends,  yea,  and  all  of  earth 's 

daughters, 

All  Marys,  and  Lucys,  and  Daisies,  and  Jennies — 
Then    your    sins    and    shortcomings    will    be    only 

4 'funny." 
Three    cheers   for   the   man   who   has   "plenty   of 

money ! ' ' 


"GROWING  OLD." 
By  Miss  Fading  Flirt. 

I  take  the  Bible  from  the  shelf 
And  o'er  the  "Record"  pore  and  pore, 

And  read  it  over  to  myself, 

"Was  born  in  eighteen-f  orty-four ! " 

I  would  not  utter  it  aloud — 

No,  not  for  all  my  father's  gold — 

Still  will  the  thought  upon  me  crowd, 

"I'm  growing  old!" 

I  looked  into  the  glass  to-night. 

I  noticed  little  veins  of  blue 
Stood  out  upon  my  brow  of  white — 

I  mused — "Alas!  then  this  is  true, 
My  face  has  not  a  sign  of  red!" 

And  yet  my  heart  is  hardly  bold 
Enough  to  say,  what  might  be  said, 

"I'm  growing  old!" 

"They"  only  come  now  "as  a  friend" 
And  sit  upon  the  farthest  chair. 

They're  careful  now  not  to  offend  ( !) 
By  mentioning  that  I  am  fair, 


142  Growing  Old 

Or  venturing  to  press  my  hand, 

Are  not  so  "rude"  as  to  enfold 
Their  arms  about  me,  as  I  stand — 

Ah! — growing  old! 


They  talk  of  politics  and  money, 

The  ones  that  used  to  talk  of  "love" 

And  "luscious  lips  as  sweet  as  honey," 
And  say,  "Come  nestle  near,  my  dove!" 

They  "wonder  why  I  do  not  wed," 
Yet  never  "offer"— 0!  how  cold! 

They  mean,  by  this,  I  am  afraid, 

"You're  growing  old!" 

I  thought  I  heard  two  saucy  girls 
Say,  as  they  passed  the  other  day, 

"Of  late  her  boasted  flood  of  curls 

Is  growing  thin — well,  that's  the  way!" 

It 's  true ;  for,  when  I  comb  my  hair, 
The  comb  fills  full  as  it  can  hold. 

I  almost  cry  out  in  despair, 

"I'm  growing  old!" 

One  time  my  hands  were  pigeon-breasted — 
How  fondly  then  they  used  to  kiss  them! 

How  many  tears  upon  them  rested! 

But  now  somehow  they  never  miss  them. 

Instead  of  dimples  now  are  knuckles, 
And  Charlie,  who  once  came  to  hold 

Them  fondly,  stays  away  and  chuckles, 

"She's  growing  old!" 

0  William,  with  your  "little  ones!" 
0  Charlie,  with  your  smiling  eyes, 

Two  stars  now  sparkled  into  sons! 
0  many  others,  whose  "good-bys" 

Each  left  upon  my  heart  the  trace 


Growing  Old  143 

Of  fleeting  years!   you  say,  I'm  told, 
I  dare  not  look  you  in  the  face, 

Since  growing  old! 

The  mothers  call  upon  me  now, 

And  ministers,  to  sympathize 
And  point  me  to  the  ''promise  bow"  ( !) — 

"You're     pale,"     they     say,     with     scores     of 
"whys?" 

0  me !    they  know,  as  well  as  I, 
My  color  in  my  youth  was  sold, 

And  that  the  only  reason  why 

Is  "growing  old!" 

1  see  my  face  is  growing  thin ; 

I  see  my  lips  have  lost  their  red; 
I've  lost  the  dimple  on  my  chin 

And  half  the  hair  upon  my  head. 
I'm  growing  prudish  in  my  notions; 

I  fear  I'm  growing  to  "a  scold;" 
I'm  growing  angular  in  motions — 

"I'm  growing  old." 

I  see  the  maidens  in  the  street 

Smile,  as  I  pass  them  of  a  morn. 
Men  have  quit  gazing  at  my  feet; 

And  bachelors  now  say,  "Forlorn!" 
That  used  to  call  me  "young  and  green." 

Sometimes  they  say,  "Old  maid,"  I'm  told, 
And,  "Growing  pious,  growing  lean, 

And  growing  old!" 

I  gave  my  younger,  sweeter  life, 

To  witcheries  and  smiles  and  lies, 
And  frightened  at  the  thought  of  "wife" — 

My  older  life  I  give  to  sighs. 
I  look  back  to  my  warmer  days, 

Now  that  my  heart  is  growing  cold, 
And  sigh,  "Flirtation  never  pays, 

When  we  are  old!" 


144  Chinatown  Inland 


CHINATOWN  INLAND. 

There's  a  little  sweet  spot  in  the  oaks, 
Once  the  prettiest  place  in  the  dell, 

Where  the  Chinaman  chatters  and  smokes, 

Concocting  his  heathenish  jokes, 
In  that  mystical  Orient  smell. 

I  sit  at  my  window  and  groan, 

To  remember  the  time  when  the  place 
In  beautiful  blossoms  was  sown, 
And  all  the  rich  breezes  were  blown 

Through  the  leaves  of  the  shadowy  space. 

New  shanties  have  buried  the  bloom, 

And  the  forests  have  faded  to  stumps; 
They  have  laden  the  air  with  perfume, 
And  the  place  has  a  beggarly  gloom, 
The  sight  of  which  gives  me  the  "dumps." 

Lo !   the  rickety  sign  of  Chin  Lung — 

Him  washee  for  Melican  men. 
See !   the  sleepy-eyed  heathen  Lin  Chung, 
With  a  wide-awake  wag  of  his  tongue, 

Seducing  us  into  his  den. 

He  sits  'mid  the  opium  fume, 

With  boxes  of  bitter  cigars, 
I  inwardly  sin,  I  presume, 
But  I  do  hate  the  sight  of  his  room, 

And  his  sallow  face  pitted  with  scars. 

With  a  gait  I  dislike  and  eschew, 
Like  a  laden  pack  mule,  see  Ah  Sam 
Trot  away  with  a  flop  of  his  shoe, 
With  his  pole  and  a  cabbage  or  two — 
All  seemingly  sprinkled  with  balm. 


Overland  Sweat  145 

I  presume  that  the  spirit  is  wrong, 

But  I  cannot  but  think  as  he  scuffs 
Along,  he's  a  giaour  from  "Cantong," 
Or  a  Buffalo  Bill  from  "Hong  Kong," 
Or  one  of  less  notable  "roughs." 

Get  out  of  the  way  for  Miss  Kip ! 

As  she  shuffles  along  on  her  toes, 
With  a  curious  heathenish  tip 
With  a  look  in  her  eyes  and  a  lip 

That  pictures  unspeakable  woes. 


AN  OVERLAND  SWEAT. 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

While  the  warm  winds,  floating  over, 

Like  too  passionate  a  lover, 

Hug  us  till  the  coolest  fret! 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

Let  me  warn  you,  Eastern  "bummer," 

Contemplating  such  a  trip, 

Wait  until  the  end  of  summer, 

Or  come  round  upon  a  ship. 

Sweat!     Sweat!     Sweat! 

How  d'ye  reckon  I  can  scribble, 

With  this  everlasting  dribble? 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

Till  the  babes  break  out  in  pimples, 

And  the  coal  dust  fills  the  dimples 

On  the  ladies'  sweet  young  faces. 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

Till  we  all  grow  black  and  wet, 

And  our  kisses  leave  the  traces 

Of  our  lips  and — a  regret! 


146  This  Is  a  Day 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

Fair  necks  colored  black  as  crows ! 

Darkness  on  the  lady's  hose, 

Which  indelicate  she  shows 

In  her  desperate  endeavor 

Now  to  keep  cool — now  or  never! 

Sweat !     Sweat !     Sweat ! 

Would  my  clothes  were  webs  as  thin 

As  what  little  spiders  spin! 


THIS  IS  A  DAY. 
I. 

This  is  a  day  of  Advances, 

A  time  that  allures  and  entrances 

The  young  with  its  follies  and  fancies, 

And  throws  on  the  hair  of  the  old  even  glances 

Too  young  with  follies'  enhances — 

For  sure  'tis  a  day  of  Advances! 

II. 

This  is  a  day  of  Romances, 

A  time  of  the  passionate  dances 

Of  hearts  'mid  the  tossing  of  lances 

That  bleed  out  happiness — chances 

And  changing  of  plots,  and  Romances ! 

III. 

This  is  a  day  of  Derision, 

A  time  of  dreaming,  of  vision, 

Of  fortunes  and  fields  of  Elysian, 

So  of  hanging  of  hands — indecision — 

Of  wishing,  non-acting  Derision! 


Sham  147 

IV. 

This  is  a  day  of  Denouncing, 
A  time  of  prophetic  pronouncing — 
Of  spoken  and  written  announcing — 
Of  ribbons  and  pleating  and  flouncing — 
Of  characters  pliant  and  bouncing — 
Non-breaking,  elastic,  Denouncing! 

V. 

This  is  a  day  of  Uprising 

At  nothings — a  time  of  advising 

For  nothing — of  "hefting"  and  sizing, 

Without  any  buying — surprising, 

Concocting  and  fruitless  Uprising! 


SHAM. 

(Song  of  a  Sorehead.) 

His  tongue  may  be  smooth,  and  his  beard  be  "di 
vine,  ' ' 

His  complexion  be  pure,  and  his  eye  like  a  star; 
He  may  talk  of  his  guineas,  and  trip  to  the  Rhine, 

But  be  careful  you  value  him  only  at  par, 
Lest  he  gull  you  in  trade :    Let  him  sing  out  his 

psalm ; 
Then  leave  him ;  for  he,  like  the  world,  is  a  sham. 

The  boy  with  his  marbles  and  figures  of  mud 
Rules  great  as  the  king  over  cannons  and  men; 

The  girl  with  her  dolls  is  the  mother  in  bud; 
And  the  motherless  chicken  will  soon  be  a  hen; 

And  either  is  false  as  a  shell  without  clam, 

For  all  are  the  world's,  and  the  world  is  a  sham. 


148  Sham 

Who  cares  for  the  languorous  love  of  a  girl! 

She  may  smile,  it  is  sweet ;  she  may  frown,  it  is 

sour; 
Her  flood  of  fair  curls  in  a  day  may  uncurl, 

And  the  red  of  her  countenance  pale  in  an  hour! 
Volcanoes  of  passion  will  cool  to  a  calm, 
For  love  and  the  world  are  alike,  and  a  sham. 

He   that   seemeth   a   saint,   yet   may   prove   but    a 
"brick"; 

And  tame  is  the  man  with  the  sobriquet  "wild"; 
And  the  trade  we  call  cash,  after  all,  is  "on  tick"; 

And  the  parent  is  oft  more  a  child  than  the  child. 
That  turns  out  a  poison  you  purchased  for  balm; 
Tis  the  way  of  the  world,  and  the  world  is  a  sham. 

The  man  on  the  street,  with  his  red-hued  balloons, 

Is  a  sham,  as  are  they,  and  the  buyers,  and  you! 

And   some    men   we   call    good   are    but   plated   as 

spoons — 

Fragmentary  characters,  patched  as  with  glue; 
So,  a  touch,  and  they  break,  and  come  down  with  a 

slam; 
For,  oh,  my  young  dreamer,  the  world  is  a  sham! 

Overhead    there    are    leaves    that    were    yesterday 

green ; 

To-day  they  are  dead  and  a  sham,  as  the  world, 
While    the    mortified    sunbeams    are    skulking    be 
tween  ! 

A  leaf,  a  dead  trifle,  unbidden  is  hurled 
In  my  face,  as  my  song  in  the  world 's  with  a  slam ! 
Is  this,  as  all  other  things  earthly,  a  sham! 


Who 's  Guve  'naw  ?  149 

WHO'S  GUVE 'NAW? 

A  "Returning  Board"  Reminder. 

"  'Hi!  Pompey,  why  you  settin'  thar — 

You  cogitatin'  politics?" 
"I'm  reasonin'  how  to  make  it  cl'ar 

Jest  how  we  got  in  sich  a  mix. 
I  can't  exactly  think  wha'  faw 
We're  needin'  more'n  one  Guve 'naw, 
Each  cryin'  peace,  yit  threat  'nin'  waw. 

"Thar's  Hampton  'thout  a  speck  of  law, 

And  whar  he  gits  his  stamps  is  queeah; 
And  Chamberlain — wall,  I  do  n'  know,  sah, 

But  I'm  a-growing  luny  hee-ah ! 
That's  why  I  can't  jes'  tell  wha'  faw 
We're  needin'  more'n  one  Guve 'naw, 
Both  speakin'  peace,  an'  actin'  waw? 

"An'  look  heeah,  sah,  I  can't  jes'  claw 

This  mattah  through  my  cu'lly  head 
How  Drew  have  captuahed  Flowi-daw — 

By  moldin'  laws  or  moldin'  lead 
To  force  him  in;  d'yer  see  wha  faw 
They  chucked  Drew  in  as  Guve 'naw, 
By  speakin'  peace  and  actin'  waw? 

"And  Looseanah's  gone  to  waw; 

For  Nicholls  sw'ars  he's  Guve 'naw ; 
And  Packard  sw'ars  the  hull  of  law 

Is  on  his  side  faw  Guve 'naw. 
It  puzzles  me  mo'  and  mo'  wha'  faw 
We  can't  make  out  who's  Guve-naw, 
And  stop  peace  men  from  makin'  waw!" 


150  Prairie  Blossoms 

PRAIRIE  BLOSSOMS. 

THE  THOUGHTS  OF  A  GENIUS. 

A  genius  thoughts  at  best  are  like  wild  cattle ; 

They  always  come  in  droves  and  out  of  order — 
Not  like  a  well-drilled  army  into  battle, 

More  like  the  bison  on  the  Kansan  border. 
So  we  must  catch  them  while  we  can.    What  rattle 

They  make  stampeding  on  the  fertile  plain 

Within  a  bold  and  mighty  genius'  brain! 


KNOWLEDGE. 

We  know  but  little  of  our  neighbor's  pains; 

They  nurse,  then  loathe,  then  bless,  then  curse, 

by  turns. 
The  mind  forever  after  knowledge  strains, 

Altho'  'tis  sorrow  to  the  heart  that  learns. 
The  greedy  heart  of  man  wails  out  complains, 

If  life  refuses  more  of  knowledge — yearns 
For  more   of  knowledge!     Knowledge!     "Tho'   it 

knows 
'Tis  always  pickled  with  the  juice  of  woes." 


A  MYSTERY  REVEALED. 

One  morning,in  the  balmy  month  of  June, 
(You  know  it  is  not  balmy  all  the  year), 

There  was  a  bustle  in  our  little  town, 
And  matrons  to  and  fro  began  to  steer 

And,  at  the  corners,  whisper,  undertone, 
A  secret  each  into  another's  ear, 


Prairie  Blossoms  151 

But  whisper  confidentially,  of  course! 
What  was  it?    Marriage,  cradle,  or  a  hearse? 

The  saucy  boys  quit  kicking  up  their  heels; 

Each  hangs  about  the  corner  for  a  chance 
To  steal  behind  some  matron,  as  she  deals 

This  secret  to  a  friend,  with  cautious  glance — 
Forgets  to  cry  for  toys,  forgets  his  meals, 

Hands  punched  into  the  pockets  of  his  pants; 
Forgets  all  but  his  big  desire  to  hear 
The  news  that's  setting  all  the  town  on  ear. 

The  fact  is  this  (to  keep  the  ball  in  motion 
That  set  the  town  in  such  a  fermentation 

And  proved  so  bring  the-dead-to-life  a  potion), 
The  fact  is  this — confuse  my  trepidation! 

I  scarce  can  say  it!    Maybe  it's  a  notion, 
I  dread  to  think  or  speak  of! — But  the  fact 
Is  one  was  there — was  born,  to  be  exact! 


TEA  AND  COFFEE. 

Well,  I  have  been  to  "tea,"  and  drunk  it,  too, 
Altho'  I  think  it  isn't  healthy,  very; 

And  coffee  hurts  the  nerves  I  always  knew, 
Yet,  like  a  toper,  save  not  quite  so  merry, 

I  always  drink  them  both,  and  so  do  you. 
Perhaps  I'd  better  be  a  toper  cheery 

Than  growling  with  dyspeptic  melancholy 

Brought  on  by  swilling  tea  and  coffee,  Pollie. 


WARM  AND  COOL. 

'Tis   strange   how   balmy   winds   may   bend   young 

trees, 

And  strange  how  warm  young  lovers'  kindness 
blows 


152  Prairie  Blossoms 

And  bends  their  actions  by  its  loving  breeze, 

Till  what  they  plant  for  joys  grow  knotted  woes ! 

The  lover  comes  to  winter;  so  he  flees 
And    leaves    her — turns    her    flowery    spring    to 
snows. 


A   BURIAL. 

The  old  cock  crew  so  very  sad  and  loud, 
He  burst  his  mighty  heart  and  fell  and  died! 

Then  Pompey  went  and  wound  him  in  a  shroud, 
And  bore  him  to  the  turnip-patch,  and  cried, 

And  laid  him  in  the  ground,  the  while  a  crowd 
Of  wond'ring  hens,  with  heads  askew,  soft  sighed 

To  hear  clods  fall  on  chiefest  of  the  cocks, 

And  asked  each  other,  "Was  he  orthodox?" 


CONCLUSION 

BE  IT  SO. 

What  framer  of  imaginations 

Has  not  his  platitudes 

And  mine  is  on  me. 

Light  and  dull  as  withered  cornstalks. 

My  brain  lies  in  its  sheathing, 

Like  juiceless  pumice  in  a  cider  press. 

I  laugh  at  nothings — 

Stare  blank  at  keenest  of  wit-faces. 

My  fancies  glut  themselves  on  nothings, 

Satisfied. 

The  sun-engilded  cloud, 


Be  It  So  153 

That  swings  along  the  sunset,  like  a  censer, 

Is  nothing  more  magnificent  to-day 

Than  tumble-weeds 

Rolling  over  the  sered  Winter-fields. 

The  green  leaves,  the  tracts  of  the  Church  of  Na 
ture, 

Shaking  at  us,  eloquent,  betimes, 

To-day  are  utter  blank  tracts — 

Poor  brown  paper — unwritten,  unattractive. 

The  bird-songs. 

On  which  my  fond  imaginings  have  sailed, 

In  infinite  speed,  in  infinite  beauty,  in  infinite  pur 
ity, 

Up  to  the  gates  of  a  new-born  Eden, 

To-day  sound  as  the  clamorous  croak  of  frogs. 

The  glimmering  river, 

On  which  have  floated  I,  entranced  in  vision, 

Out  to  the  limitless,  and  said: 

"The  river  of  God's  peace  falling  into  infinity — 

Grand  sublimity!" 

To-day  'tis  as  the  murky  play-puddle  of  the  street- 
boys. 

Over  me  the  blue  skies  hang  as  a  faded  dim-blue 
awning, 

Undelightful. 

The  beauty  of  a  woman's  eye  is  as  a  broken  goggle- 
glass. 

Lying  in  the  dusty  street,  dull-gleaming, 

Uncoveted. 

The  redness  of  a  woman's  cheek  for  loveliness, 

Is  as  the  red  bricks  'neath  my  feet. 

The  voluptuousness  of  her  bosom 

And  deepness  of  the  passions  of  her  rounded  beau 
ties 

Are  flat  commonness — 

Unenticing  as  the  rattling  skeleton  in  my  study. 

My  aspirations,  dropt  from  the  ceiling  of  my  mind, 

Like  crumbling  plaster, 

Are  swept  out  unregretted. 


154  Be  It  So 

My  hopes  are  bees  in  Winter, 

Blank — aimless ! 

One  lone  hill  of  thought  thrust  up  on  this  level, 

Repeated  at  long  intervals. 

This  the  little  flowerless  thought-hill: 

"What  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him?" 

Verily!  verily! 

What  shall  I  write  then?     What 

Shall  be  the  goal,  the  finish  of  the  thought? 

I've  followed  on  the  trail,  till  that  I  sought 

Is  seen  a  gauzy  glimmering;  and  I  know  not 

If  it  be  some  immortal  ending  of  a  thought 

Far  in  the  Heaven,  or  flash  of  nothing  near — 

A  firefly  near,  or  window  light  beyond  it  thro' 

The  tossing  trees,  or  rising  star  set  in  the  blue! 

But  I  see  no  more  of  it — a  tear 

Has  put  it  out!    What  shall  I  write  then?    What 

Shall  be  the  finish  of  the  feeling  wrought? 

I  write — I  look — 1  see     ...     a  blotted  spot! 

So  what  I  yearn  to  write  is  written     .     .     .     not; 

And  what  is  written  here,  compared  to  what 

I  would  were  writ,  is  as  a  blot ! 


A  holy  stillness  hovers  in  the  air 
And  bathes  the  soul  in  peaceful  reverie; 
Breathe  low,  nor  speak,  nor  sigh,  nor  even  dare 
To  break  the  sweetened  still  with  sounds  of  glee ! 

The  very  flowers  their  purest  homage  tend 
And  kiss  their  fragrant  incense  to  the  sky. 
They  look  above,  and  drop  and  blend 
Their  sinless  tears  where  dying  shadows  lie. 

The  silver  moon  unveils  her  timid  face 
Made  mild  with  messages  of  speechless  love — 
God's  felt,  but  unseen,  presence  fills  the  place 
And  melts  the  heart  to  prayer — so  look  above! 


FINIS. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAR    1019- 
APR  22  1934 


APR  261934 


.MAR    1-4KE 


60ct54VH 


LD  21-50m-l,'8: 


1214 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


